James Cook: Damnation (edited)
by dragonmactir
Summary: Sorry for the length: was too lazy to break it into chapters. A lightly edited version of the story posted somewhere further down my page. Looking for a beta. This is the first installment of the entire story: Redemption is the second.


**Prologue: The Child**

Who can say what potential lies hidden in a newborn child? Given the proper upbringing and opportunity, that unassuming little bundle of swaddling may grow to be a Great Man - on one side of the law or the other. And who is to say that, now and then, a child is not born with his future already set, the progression of his life determined by the very strangeness of his birth? James Alexander Cook, Esquire, may very well have been just such a child.

It was almost a miracle that he was not born crippled. His mother, Elphanora Marie Cook, was quite a beautiful woman and very fashionable. To hide the displeasing sight of her pregnant belly from the eyes of Society she wore her corsets quite tight indeed throughout the entire ordeal. Still, the boy was born whole and apparently undamaged, at least at first glance. But perhaps something had gotten squeezed rather too tightly. Nothing that showed in his gait or his strength in later years, but something internal. Perhaps his heart. However it happened to be, the boy was not born as other infants, red-skinned and bawling, face screwed tight against the sudden light, but snow-white and silent, startling forget-me-not blue eyes wide open and curious. And cold - the colorless skin of the babe seemed almost to radiate an aura of frost. He was dropped into a bassinet as swiftly as possible and there he remained, virtually unnoticed, for days.

Of course they hired a Nurse to take care of him. Young and pretty and courted by multiple beaus, she had little time for bothersome children. It was enough, she felt, that she had to waste precious minutes of her time to fill a bottle for the boy.

James, for his part, seemed unusually self-sufficient for an infant. After three days he realized that laying flat on his back put him at a distinct strategical disadvantage. Two days of concerted effort and he learned to roll over onto his stomach. Another day's hard labor found him propping himself on his arms, head up. Soon he was crawling and before a year passed, he was walking without difficulty. There was only one skill he was slow to learn; he would not say his first word until he was nearly seven years old.

Because of this, and because of the fact that his silent presence in the house went largely unnoticed and forgotten by his always-busy parents and the servants as well, James was late to start school. Until he did, it could not be stated definitively that his father even knew he existed. Once the elder Cook began paying tuition fees, however, he took full and violent notice of his son. On his first end-of-term holiday, from which he had to walk home as the coachman forgot to pick him up, the issue became James' straggly, childish penmanship. On his second holiday, it was his grade level in arithmetic - also hardly the boy's fault, due to his late start in education, and already his scores were the best of his class, his class being lower than it should have been at that age. The trend continued throughout the boy's early education until he was fifteen years of age, when, on his slow trudge home through the streets of London, he was espied by a generally unintelligent yet highly perceptive little man. And from that moment, the fate of his life was set.

 **Chapter One: Crimped**

Horace Eustace Smith, formerly known as "Smitty" by his shipmates until they discovered that even that was too much effort to undertake on behalf of such a fat, placid little fellow, was considered "educated" by the standards of the ragged frigate he shipped aboard, meaning he could print his own name and when adding two and two usually came up with four. In his own mind at least, this aura of academia was increased by the tiny round-lensed spectacles perched on his bulbous, red-veined nose.

On that day, "Smee," as he was known, had found himself in possession of enough coin for a couple of bottles of Muscat, a situation he took full advantage of. Thoroughly sheeted, he found himself in quite the wrong part of town; far from the wharfs, in the upper-class areas of the city. He would doubtless be locked up for the night - and possibly beaten - if a constable happened to see him reeling through the streets, but even drunk he had a certain mysterious quality of invisibility, a talent that served him well shipboard or landed.

He found himself leaning against the iron rail fence of a fine example of British preparatory school just as the shining black coaches drew up to load the trunks and trappings of the privileged pipsqueaks going home for the summer holiday. They came boiling out of the doors of the school, laughing and calling like rooks in a courtyard. Through rheumy, bloodshot eyes Smee watched them, taking the occasional pull off his second bottle and thinking of nothing in particular. It occurred to him, in a vague sense, that all the boys looked the same. Not the Muscat playing tricks with his mind. As previously mentioned he was an unusually perceptive individual in his own unique way, and he noticed the differences in height, build, and coloration between the children. It was a quality they shared, not physical, that gave them the appearance of sameness, enhanced by the matching uniforms they wore. They were all loud and boisterous, glad to be free of the daily grind of schoolwork for a time, and even those who were obviously on the outs of the school caste system, the ones who walked alone, seemed equally glad of the bright summer day and the promise of freedom.

Except for one. One of the Casteless, he was also the last one through the doors. He walked slowly, sedately, like a grave old man rather than a hearty youth. Tall and slim, with a glory of glossy black curls peeking out from under his school cap, he looked older than the other boys, too old for a preparatory school surely. He dragged a smallish trunk behind him and, without expression, walked through the gates and down the street as though expecting someone to come collect him had long passed out of consideration. Following an instinct he could not have explained even to himself, Smee staggered after him, keeping his distance.

He followed the boy through several neighborhoods to one of the more affluent in the city. He watched the boy ring himself into a fine house, and he heard the strident shouting of the father as he gave the boy a dressing down about something or other. And in his rum-soaked heart, Smee felt a stirring of pity. This was a boy, he thought, who had everything and absolutely nothing.

Smee waited until the lighters had the streetlamps lit and the candles inside the fine house were extinguished before making his move. He had made good use of his time; he had found the boy's window which, thankfully, was on the ground floor. It was closed and locked, but he had a plan. It was that perceptive nature of his that ensured its success.

From hiding in a stand of shrubs, he tossed a pebble at the pane of glass. It rattled off with a satisfying ping, and even in the darkness within he could see the boy stir in his bed. Another pebble and the boy rose and pulled a dressing gown around himself. He came to the window and peered out, but did not open it. Smee loosed another pebble. Exasperated, the boy unlatched the window and shoved it up. He leaned out into the yard, peering into the darkness with eyes Smee was suddenly sure could see in the dark. He was seized with terror and shrank back into the bushes, almost forgetting to put his plan into action. All would have changed then, for worse or for better, if James Cook weren't quite curious as to what, exactly, made that noise. He climbed out of the window and stepped into the garden, drawing quite close to where the little sailor stood hidden. Smee drew the belaying pin out of his sash and, before he could think better of it, brought it down hard on the curly head. The boy dropped without a sound. Hurriedly, lest he be discovered, Smee gathered up the still form and tossed the boy over his shoulder, then made for the docks at his fastest bowlegged gait.

 **Chapter Two: Pirate**

It was a real pea-souper; that was James' first thought upon waking. The fact that the fog was in his bedroom, and his bed seemed to be swaying gently with creaks and groans, did not immediately register. When it did, he shook his head violently and opened his eyes very wide. Slowly the world swam into focus. He was in a dim, unpainted space, laying on bare boards, and a fat, bearded man with spectacles perched on his nose was bending over him anxiously.

"Oy, lad - gave me a right scare, ye did. Thought I'd gone and hit ye a mite too hard. Cold as ice, ye was, and I couldn't find a heartbeat to save me life."

"What's happened to me?" James asked. The fat man rubbed his pudgy hands together nervously.

"Er, well…ye sorta been…crimped," he said, and barked a harsh laugh. "Belayed, ye see. I, uh…thought ye'd make a good hand, y'see. 'Tis an old and well-respected sea-farin' tradition."

"For pirates. Not honest seamen."

The fat man looked affronted. "Now, me lad - them's unfair words, they is. Pirates we may be, but we be honest seamen, too - leastwise when we has to be. 'Sides, ye really think the Royal Navy don't have Crimpers out and lookin' fer unwary fellers? Don't ye believe it, lad."

James waved the words aside. "I don't care. I suppose I am expected to look sharp and work hard, else I can no doubt expect more…belaying?"

"Er, well…yes, sort of. I suppose."

"Then I reckon I'd better step to it. I've never been on a ship before, let alone worked as a hand. What are my duties?"

Over the next weeks, James learned his place in the mechanism of the old pirate frigate. He learned which hands were good to work alongside, and which were better avoided if possible. The Captain was such a man. Apparently Smee was somewhat in the habit of either hijacking or coercing young boys in unfortunate circumstances into the pirate life, and Captain Blick, a robust, black-bearded old salt with a voice like cannonade, was not at all pleased to be playing host to another of "Smee's Pets," as he derisively called them. Particularly one with such baby-soft hands and educated manners. "Little Lord Jimmy," as James came to be known to Captain Blick, took the abuse in stride. It was truly nothing more than he was accustomed to, and he found the work relatively to his taste. Unfortunately there was next to nothing in the way of interesting conversation on board, and no books, so he passed what little spare time he got observing his new shipmates.

Alf Mason was an interesting spectacle. James almost believed the rumors that his mother had sold him for a bottle of Muscat, he was so ugly. The only reason he doubted that rumor, in fact, was that whoever would have paid good Muscat for such a creature was obviously a ludicrously bad bargainer. Pox all over his face, teeth nothing more than slimy black stumps in his yellowed gums, black eyes rimmed with jaundiced yellow - and he was scarcely any older than James himself.

Then there was "Stinky Pete" Ferrelli, who smelled like rotten eggs, long-dead codfish, spoiled pork and pickle brine, mixed into a fine sour mash with the cheapest rock-gut whiskey and rum, wet dog and dead weasel. Despite the fact that none of his new comrades was the picture of hygiene, James learned quickly to remain ever upwind of this particular pirate.

Smee was perhaps the most interesting case study. He was Second Mate and yet he seemed not to have got the position through any particular merit. He was the Captain's favorite whipping boy and practically incompetent. He was a coward as well. While James quickly learned to love the noise and spectacle of the occasional raid or shipboard battle, Smee was the first to hide himself in the cargo hold when the cutlasses were unsheathed. He was a blunderer and a blitherer, yet as time went on James found in himself something approaching affection for the fat fool. An interesting phenomenon, as he had never felt any sort of softer emotion for anyone before. Smee was the only pirate on the ship with anything approaching a philosophical mind, though his philosophy was of the simplest sort. "A warm bunk, a pocketful a' gold, and a bellyful a' rum, lad - that be what the good life is all about."

After two months before the mast, Captain Blick announced to the crew that the ship had taken on enough booty: they were heading home. James felt a brief thrill before he realized that the ship's home port was nowhere near London or England at all. The ship, called the _Bloody Bill_ , made its berth at one of the Pirate Isles, a secret archipelago far from charted seas. "First star to the right and straight on 'til morning, Mister Smee," Blick told that fellow as he manned the helm that day. "We'll offload our cargo in Liberty. Maybe we can get rid of some unwanted ballast as well," he said with a murderous glance at James, quietly mending a sail nearby. James stared back steadily and the Captain was the first to avert his gaze. A minor victory, but James took what triumphs he could find. He knew even as he smiled to himself that he would most likely pay for it later.

 **Chapter Three: At Liberty**

Liberty was a town without the slightest hint of pretension: founded by pirates, operated predominantly by whores (even the mercantile), it was a smelly, filthy little place of hovel and crumbling façade.

James disembarked gingerly, stepping through the filth of the wharf like a cat stepping through puddles of water. As he walked, he jingled the pocketful of coin he had collected. Though he received no share of the ship's swag, he had learned early on that swift fingers meant full pockets, and he was quite gifted at cards as well - an early fascination with the subjects of probability and statistics led to a quick mastery of the fine art of card counting, and while he lost as often as he felt prudent, he already had a reputation aboard ship as a sharp. "That boy has the Divvil's own luck," one pirate was heard to say, walking away from the game several pounds poorer and minus one rather fine dagger, now tucked securely in the front of James' sash.

There were several projects on James' to-do list for Liberty, the first of which was a proper bath. He did the best he could shipboard to stay clean, but with no soap nor scrub brushes, and certain comrades around whom it was not wise to strip naked - particularly when you were a sweet-faced youth - he knew he smelled rather gamey, and his hair was quite stringy and greasy.

The "bathhouse," actually just another of the six brothels in town and the most pretentious, was at the furthest end of the main - and only - street. A bit more care had been taken with the decoration, meaning the threadbare carpet had at been brushed at least once in the last decade and there was a bad landscape or two on the walls and the "doves" were slightly younger and better kempt than the other houses boasted. Because of that it was also more expensive and consequently less frequented by the sailors. James had no interest in the cribs upstairs. His interest lay in the sign by the front door. "Baths - 5 p. All the hot water you ask for. Soap - 2 p."

"Oo, now here's a fresh-faced one," the Madam said as James entered. "First time, honey?"

"I'm here for a bath," James said evenly, and plunked down his seven pence.

"As you wish, young master. Tilly?"

A young girl, not much older than James, came out of a back room. She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes and giggled.

"Show this young gentleman to the tubs and fetch him his soap and water. Take good care of him, now."

Tilly curtsied, giggled again, and led James into a largish room at the back of the building. Six claw foot tubs, set to drain directly into gaps in the bare wood floor, sat three to a side, and none of them were in use.

"There's a couch to sit yourself if you'll wait just a few minutes for me to fill your tub, Sir," Tilly said. James thanked her gravely and sat primly on the dusty old chaise. A broken spring poked him but he stayed still and it wasn't so bad.

The girl brought buckets of water from another room. James was quite certain the first few were ice cold, but by the fifth bucket he could see steam rising from the water as she poured. When the tub was filled she brought a lump of homemade soap and several clean - well, relatively clean - towels and curtsied to him. "Shall I help you out of your clothes?" she asked, making a good play of demure.

James stood up. "No thank you."

She made a little moue of displeasure, no doubt seeing her chances of a generous tip dwindling. She curtsied herself out of the room and James disrobed in privacy. He folded his clothes - tattered castoffs culled from the other pirates on ship, and mended and tailored to fit with surprising skill by Smee - as carefully and as neatly as though they had been the finest high-fashion society garb. Then he slipped under the water, submerging himself completely for a good minute or more before raising his head out again. He lay back with a groan of pleasure and simply soaked for a bit before starting to scrub with real intent.

He rang for more hot water four times before he finally felt clean. He toweled off, dressed, gave the now sullen Tilly a gold coin - her pouty face transformed immediately into a radiance almost blinding, such a change was it - and left the bathhouse. He entered the more upscale of the two taverns nearby and sat down at a table. He called for a glass of ale, not trusting the quality of the water, and a bowl of chowder.

Smee reeled in, always shakier on land than on deck even when he wasn't drunk, which he clearly was now, and saw him. "Eh, lad, ye had me worried, ye did! Goin' off on yer own like that. This ain't a good town for a young fella alone. Yer lucky ye ain't been beat and robbed and left fer dead."

"I'll be more careful," James promised. Smee's ruddy face lifted. His obvious concern would have been touching if James were open to such sentiment. The sailor sat down at the next chair and called for rum.

"Ye know, lad, the chowder here is rotten, pure'd rotten. But they got a beef stew'd make a saint weep."

James spooned up a globby bit of chowder and eyed the smelly, phlegm-like contents mistrustfully. The fish smelled like something left on the stoop for days. Even the fat cat snoozing on the sideboard probably would not touch it.

"Where do they get the beef?" he asked, letting the soup fall back into the bowl.

Smee smacked the table and wheezed laughter. "Well, lad, I won't swear it's honest beef, but its like enough for sailor folk, sure enough. Gotta be better than that putrid fish, eh? Even if its long pork - and it might be, lad, it might."

James swallowed his disgust. He had heard stories about "Long Pork." Human flesh, apparently a delicacy on some of the Pirate Isles. He hailed the tavern wench and ordered a bowl of beef stew. Smee pulled the bowl of chowder over to his side of the table and munched it happily. "Waste not, want not, me mither used't say," he said between spoonfuls of the stuff. "I'm too drunk to taste it."

Once both men were finished, Smee leaned back in his chair, which creaked warningly beneath his bulk. James watched, fascinated, to see if it would hold but apparently the dry wood was stronger than it looked.

"Ye know, lad," Smee began expansively, "Captain's up to sumfing. Don't know what and ain't my place to speculate, but he looked in a right good mood today after divvying up the take, and the take weren't nothing to write home about, it weren't. And I heard him talkin' to the First Mate, I did, 'fore he let me off fer me liberty. He's having carpenters on to the ship, he is. Gonna have her all refitted. Now lad, that bloody ship ain't pulled a decent profit in all the years I've shipped aboard her - not once in a decade, lad! Now, what in tarnation could Captain Blick be so bloody happy about, eh? What's he plannin' that makes a skin-tight ol' sharpie like him think to refit a scurvy ol' tub like the _Bloody Bill?"_

James pondered for a bit. "I don't know," he said at last.

Smee tapped the side of his nose and looked knowingly at the boy. "I can tell you one thing, me lad; when a hard case like Jack Blick starts smilin', bodes no good fer man nor beast it don't. Now, I make a habit outta not gettin' too curious, and it serves me well - kept me alive this long, it has. But me nose is twitchin' and the smell of a right dirty rat is in the air."

James sipped his watery ale and thought about what the old sailor said. Unlike Smee he _did_ make a habit out of getting too curious, and he wondered mightily what devilment the Captain might be planning. But it couldn't be anything too terrible, not compared to the ships they'd already looted and sunk, at least. Smee was Second Mate; he would be one of the first to know and James knew as surely as though it had been promised that he would be one of the first the pudgy fellow would tell.

Smee shook his head sadly and James turned his attention back to the sailor. "I tell ye, lad, that new merchant Captain dealt with, he were a slick one, he was. That he's tangled up at the bottom a' this new scheme a' Blicks' I've no doubt in me noggin. Captain and the First Mate was closeted up with him a long time after they pushed me out the door, a talkin' and plottin'. Didn't like him, I didn't. Talked too fast. He were too clean, too. A fancy bloke like him ain't got no legitimate bid'ness in the Pirate Isles. Bad tidings, me lad. Bad tidings."

James smiled a little at the little sailor's implication that an influx of class and education could only be a bad thing for the pirates of the archipelago, but he felt his curiosity increasing.

"Ye headin' back to the ship tonight?" Smee asked. James cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "To sleep. Ye can get lodgin's in town if ye got the jack, but seems to me there's better ways to spend it."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so," James said. He still had a full pocket of coin and more stashed in his boot, but as Smee had said, there were better ways to spend it.

 **Chapter Four: Suspicious Activities**

James returned to the ship as twilight was setting in. Captain Blick came out of the cabin just as he was heading down into the crew's quarters in the forecastle. He was instantly wary, remembering the many times Blick had threatened to burn the insolence out of his eyes, and knowing he could expect some sort of punishment for staring the captain down earlier.

"Jimmy, me lad!" Blick called out, in apparent good _bon hommie._ James felt his hackles rise. The Captain must be plotting some truly grisly punishment, to smile so broadly.

Blick beckoned. "Come here, lad, come here. Want to talk to ye. Man to man, like." He laughed, an unpleasant sound.

James approached cautiously. When he was just beyond arm's reach he stopped, but Captain Blick reached out and slung an arm companionably around his shoulders. "Easy, lad. I been thinking. Ye do good work, lad, ye know that? Good work. How about I take ye on official-like? Ye start as cabin boy, 'course. No great shakes on the cut, but a smart lad like ye can work your way up to hand right quick, eh?"

"Er…thank you, Sir," James said, uncertain how to take this strange new development. Blick slapped him on the back hard enough to send him reeling.

"Good lad! Look sharp and ye'll go far, laddie - mark me words."

More sure than ever that Smee was right, the Captain was undoubtedly up to something, James left the deck and went below. He found his small corner of the crew's quarters and curled up to sleep, though his mind was racing with suppositions and half-baked theories. When he woke at first bell, the carpenters Smee had promised were already hard at work in the hold. James found the fat Second Mate on deck.

"We're not even beached," he said. "Isn't it a bit unusual to start a full refit right on the wharf?"

Smee scratched his head. "Aye, lad, that it is. 'Tis passin' _on-usual_ indeed. Dunno what the Captain be thinkin', but right fired up about it he is."

"He made me Cabin Boy," James said.

"Aye, lad - I heerd. Kin' of a quick turnaround, ain't it, from ballast to on the account? Well, 'tis an ill wind what don't blow nobody no good a'tall. Least yer startin' to get yer right due."

Over the following weeks the ship was beached, and James was as busy as the rest of the crew with careening; scraping the years of encrusted barnacles off the hull to increase the sluggish ship's speed and maneuverability. Even so, as the refitting progressed and the cargo hold increased as much as possible, Smee shook his head and speculated aloud that whatever the Captain intended to haul must not be expected to spoil quickly. Designed for extended fighting, the _Bloody Bill_ was no one's idea of a merchant vessel.

"Ugh, there's wood rot everywhere," James said as he scraped interminably at the stubborn growth of barnacles. "And worm holes! How does this wreck stay afloat?"

Smee, seated on a bosun's chair and scraping above, laughed. "Captain Blick ain't never been too particular 'bout his ship before, I'm afeard. 'Tis gonna take a powerful bit a' time and coin to get her shipshape again."

Slowly, slowly the _Bloody Bill_ came back to life. By the end of the mysterious improvements James actually began to feel a trifle proud of the old tub, whose smooth, clean hulls he had played his part in repairing. For his part, Captain Blick remained unusually cheery through the whole lengthy, expensive process. Finally, he told his crew to make ready. They would sail for their first cargo at dawn.

James pulled Smee aside. "You must know by now - what cargo are we going to haul?"

Smee looked uncomfortable. "Black gold," he said after a prolonged silence.

"Black gold? What in heaven's name is black gold?"

Smee started to walk away. James grabbed his flabby arm.

To his amazement, Smee smacked his hand away. "Now, lad, don't get too curious. Ain't good fer ye, it ain't. Ye know what it done fer the cat." The Second Mate waddled away, shoulders slumped. James watched him, troubled. Smee's morals were as skewed as any pirate, but he had them. Apparently the new cargo, whatever it was, offended them mightily.

 **Chapter Five: Bad Cargo**

It was a long trip. Their destination was the Gold Coast of Africa, several weeks voyage. On the way they avoided conflict with merchant vessels or other pirates, and indeed they ceased to fly the colors entirely. James wondered if Captain Blick had not turned privateer, doing some form of legitimate piracy for England or some other nation. But as time went on he began to wonder if they were engaging in any form of piracy at all.

It was a long trip as well, because as it went on Smee became more and more withdrawn, and James lost that source of conversation. Thankfully for his sanity, a last-minute recruit from Liberty provided a certain degree of distraction; a strapping, rather dashing fellow who laughed as often as he spoke at all called Roger Rees. In Rees James found an agile, if uneducated, mind, and the model for the sort of sailor he thought he ought to be.

It was Roger who taught James how to climb up into the rigging without fear, and it was Roger who taught him the proper method of loading and firing a flintlock pistol: James won one in the almost never-ending card game on the foredeck. As quick to learn as ever, James soon won a second pistol and taught himself both to shoot and load ambidextrously - even learning how to manipulate powder horn, wad, shot, and ramrod along with the pistol in a single hand, leaving the other free to fire another shot, a trick that should have been impossible and that earned him considerable respect among the other sailors. And it was Roger who taught James to fight with cutlass and dagger.

"Come now, Jas, me lad. Ye'll never survive if ye fight fair!" Roger cried with a laugh as he parried a very schoolboy thrust. He had taken to calling James "Jas" very early on, and while the nickname still sounded strange to James' ears, he was beginning to like it.

"Avast ye, Jolly - quit swingin' the lead an' give us a hand!" a pirate called out. Roger laughed, sheathed his blade, and stepped lively to join the men hauling on the anchor winch. They had been at anchor off the coast of Africa for several days, and Captain Blick had inexplicably given the order to haul anchor and set the sails that morning. James had to suppose they had their cargo, whatever it was, but it must have been loaded while he was off watch, late in the night.

Smee had had the night watch, but the little man looked downright unapproachable this morning. His fat bearded face was a storm cloud, alternately furious or hangdog. James stuffed his own cutlass back into his belt and ran to join the men on the winch.

"Jolly, do we have a cargo? We can't be leaving without something. Not after coming all this way."

Amazingly, Roger's genial face clouded up instantly. "Aye, Jas, we have a cargo. Can't ye smell it?"

Now that the older man mentioned it, James realized he had been wrinkling his nose against an unusual smell all morning. It was faint, but now that he was paying attention to it he realized what it was - feces.

"We're hauling livestock?" he asked, incredulous. Jolly laughed, but it was a laugh quite unlike his usual cheery ha-ha. It was bitter and completely without humor.

"Aye, Jas, ye could say that."

James thought about that for a minute, and suddenly it all made sense. He stopped pushing for just a second, but grabbed the windlass again quickly when the next spar hit him in the back and the pirate behind him growled a warning.

"It's slaves, isn't it?" he said, his voice as hard as flint.

"Aye, Jimmy," Bill Bradley, a particularly seasoned old hand, said. He spit a derisive wad of tobacco. "Captain Blick finally cottoned to a 'profitable cargo,' looks like. Me? Methinks I'm steppin' off this tub next time we make port."

Several nearby hands, the ones James had learned, if not to like, at least to respect, seemed to concur with Bradley's opinion, though no one but Roger seemed eager to say they would refuse to ship out again. "Never would I have signed on in the first place did I know this be a slave ship," Jolly Roger said. "I shipped aboard piratin' rigs since I been younger'n ye, Jas, but never did I see dirtier works done than that done on slavers. Jus' ye watch, lad - ye'll see more sharks a-following of this ship now than ye've ever seen in yer blessed life."

"Why would they follow us?" James said. He'd heard of sharks following ships but, except for the several occasions on his first voyage when they sank merchant vessels, he had never seen any fins.

"'Tis a long way to Cuba, lad."

"What are you saying?"

Bill Bradley answered. "'Tis hot and close in the hold, lad. They'll be chained neck, hand, and foot, packed in as tight as sardines in a tin. Captain might let 'em up once in awhile, prob'ly just to pour a bucket a' cold seawater over 'em and send 'em back down straightaway. Heaven knows what shape they be in now; some of 'em like as not won't see land again."

"They'll die and be tossed overboard, you mean?"

Bradley shrugged. "Happens to any sailor what dies at sea, me boy. 'Cept most of us be here by choice, and not nearly so many of us are likely to die on the way. And Captain ain't too turrible likely to toss a mate over what be wounded or sick."

"That's…barbaric," James said. He didn't chew tobacco but he felt like spitting just the same. There was a horrible taste in his mouth, and the smell of tightly-packed, unwashed and terrified human bodies, chained to sit or lie in their own ordure for who knows how long, was now strong in his nose - too strong to be real after only a few hours on board. "We should stop Blick."

Bradley laughed sourly. "Talkin' an uprisin', are ye, Jimmy? Well I ain't sayin' it shouldn't happen, but ain't no man aboard this tub be takin' on Captain Blick and Firs' Mate Buckland any time soon. Least of all, ye."

"I suppose not," James said. "But there'll never be slaves aboard any ship I captain."

All of the sailors within earshot laughed. Jolly reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. "Let me know when ye get yer first ship, Jas. I'll be yer First Mate."

"That's a promise, Jolly."

 **Chapter Six: Mutineer**

It _was_ a long trip to Cuba, though not much longer in leagues than the trip from the Pirate Isles to the Gold Coast. They ran into the Doldrums on the way, and fifteen slaves died (or were otherwise deemed unfit) before the sails filled once again. It seemed to be a general rule that one of the poor buggers would be found dead in his chains each morning. James took his turn at feeding and shifting them, bringing them to the decks to have seawater poured over them, doubtless stinging horribly in their many wounds, but while it could not be said that he felt any sympathy or true pity for them, he felt that all men deserved a fair fighting chance, something these unlucky devils clearly lacked. There were a few children among them. The youngest of them died out early in the voyage but the older children and adolescents had better survivability, and there were almost as many women as men, and those were the ones James felt fairly sorry for. The grown men could fight, even if they only had spears and arrows against gunpowder, but what could women and children do? It was insufferably bad form.

Still, as Bill Bradley had intimated, he himself had no power to change their situation, though that didn't stop him from continually turning potential scenarios over in his mind. If he could get the key to their chains from Buckland - but no, they had no weapons beyond their own bare hands and irons, which would be no match against pistols, rifles, and cutlasses. And most of them were weak from the long confinement, even the ones that seemed relatively uninjured and healthy. All he could do was get them, and himself as well, killed. He could make no move unless the odds were in his favor. Then, too, he had no particular desire to endanger the greater bulk of his crewmates. While none of them were innocent by any means, many of them were decent chaps, only a few were indifferent to the suffering going on below decks, and only the truly hateful fellows among them took any sort of pleasure in the idea of hauling slaves. Blick was one, and First Mate Buckland, with his sneering, scarred face, was another.

First Mate Bryce Buckland was the bane of many a mate's life, but he had a particular hatred for James. He seemed to revile the combination of youth and skill and intelligence the boy possessed, or perhaps he was jealous. Though he was short and fat like the affable Smee, no one made the mistake of supposing that Buckland was the same sort of genial incompetent. His thick gut was solid with muscle and his arms were powerful. His pugnacious countenance struck terror into the hearts of the weaker-kneed mates aboard, including the Second Mate, but James remained unaffected; another reason for Buckland to hate him.

James disliked Captain Blick, who was mostly smiles now that he felt he would be turning a decent profit for the first time in decades, and who had Buckland choose a different "Belly Warmer" for him from amongst the female slaves each night. James _despised_ Bryce Buckland, who took great pleasure in dispensing punishment to the mates for the slightest infraction and even more glee in senseless torture of the slaves. But while his feelings were perpetually rather distant, almost as though they were being felt by his shadow following behind, James' fine mind continually worked to spot ways in which he could bring the despicable Captain and his loathsome First Mate to his own skewed perception of justice.

Jolly Roger was the only person he dared articulate these plans to. He found the twenty-something sailor a willing participant in even his wildest schemes, ready to take up arms at a moment's notice. He even provided a small degree of assistance in formulating ideas, though he was not half as quick as James. Still, no matter what idea James came up with, always there were fatal flaws, and in the end it was an act of impulse that brought things crashing down.

Captain Blick called him into the Captain's Cabin one morning just as he was coming off the night watch.

"Been hearin' things about ye from the men, Jimmy, me lad. Hear'd ye been gettin' right handy with a blade. Been hearin' too that ain't no man on board can outshoot ye. Yer lookin' more and more like a good investment, Jimmy, if'n ye know what I be sayin'."

James didn't, exactly. The Captain's tone was hard to read, but he didn't think it was threatening; more conspiratorial. He decided that speaking politely but as little as possible was his best defense.

"Thank you, Sir," he said.

"Aye, lad - methinks yer destined to be a great man among pirates, and right proud I be to have yer on me crew. How old be ye, Jim?"

James was taken aback. He had to stop and think about it, which shocked him. "I…I'm just sixteen, Sir," he said at last, doing a quick mental calculation.

Captain Blick laughed, sending a blast of rum-scented foulness over James. "Sixteen! Why, Jimmy, ye still be fresh off the teat, ye be! Bet yer not even shavin' yer ugly mug yet, are ye? Ha ha ha!"

As a matter of fact, he was not; still, the remark was nettling as there was now a very clear shadow of dark peach fuzz on his still snow-white face. Captain Blick seemed to read his feelings and clapped a hard hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, lad; jus' rattlin' yer chain. 'Tis a re-markable thing, ye bein' so capable-like so young, with only a few months at sea behind ye. My thoughts be that a full hand be more useful to me than a cabin boy, that's what I be thinkin'. What do ye say, lad?"

James no longer wished to be aboard the ship at all, but he politely said, "That would be an honor, Sir."

"That's like! How's about we bring yer ol' pal Smee in ter share the news, eh? He'll be right chuffed, he will." He opened the Cabin door. "Smee! Smee, get yer well-padded britches in here!"

Smee waddled in, looking worried, and left the door open behind him. James could clearly see Jolly Roger, lurking in the hatchway just out of sight of the other men, watching.

"Smee! Good news, my man - for one time in yer gods-blasted life, ye actually done somethin' right. Yer little pet, Jimmy here, has just become a mate aboard the _Bloody Bill._ Now, what do ye think about that?"

"That…that do be right good news, Captain, Sir."

"This calls for a celebration. Smee - Muscat for our newest mate. Pour yerself a nip, as well, if ye like. Mister Rees - "

Jolly jumped, startled, but rallied quickly. "Aye, Sir?"

"Call First Mate Buckland. Tell him to pick out some likely-lookin' young thing fer me…and some pretty little one fer our young friend here. Time ter get yer feet wet, Jimmy boy, eh? Ha ha!"

Miserably, Jolly saluted and scurried away. James held his unwanted cup of liquor in his left hand and felt something very strange happening inside himself. A heat was building somewhere behind his eyes, and from somewhere very far away he felt the tin cup bending in his clutching fingers.

"I don't want that," he said, and his voice sounded different to his own ears. High, biting. A voice full of venom. It was a much older voice than his usual, and a little frightening. Captain Blick blinked.

"Don't want what, boy? Don't tell me yer picky-euny. I tell ye somethin', lad, brown sugar tastes just as sweet as the white. Sweeter, sometimes."

The cup caved in completely, splashing the decking with Muscat. The heat had become fire, and James became aware of a strange sensation in his chest, an odd pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his left breast. It was savage - and wonderful.

"You dog!" James snarled, sounding something rather less than human, and in an instant he drew the dagger from his sash and buried it in the Captain's chest. Blick had not even time to scream. He dropped, blood gushing from his wound and mouth, and was dead before he hit the planks.

"Oh, Lord have mercy!" Smee cried out. "James, lad - what've ye done?"

Still in a bloody fury, James dropped his crushed cup and drew the flintlock from his right hip. He pointed it at the fat man's chest and thumbed back the hammer. "If you have something to say about it, then by all means, say it," he said, in a mock-reasonable tone. Smee put up his hands in surrender.

"Easy, James - I'm on yer side, laddie."

"Then you'll die with him, Scum," a deep growling voice said from the door. James spun to shoot the owner of that voice - it was unmistakably First Mate Buckland - but a cutlass struck the barrel of his pistol as he turned and knocked it out of his hand. Buckland stood before him, blade raised, the two frightened young slave girls huddled in the hatchway, forgotten, behind him. James drew his other flintlock and was swift enough to cock it and squeeze the trigger before the Mate could act, but Fate chose that moment to intervene in a most unwelcome way. The gun jammed and refused to fire. Buckland grinned, showing all his few remaining teeth, and advanced an inexorable step closer. James dropped the useless weapon and backed away. Smee hid under the Captain's bunk.

"Jas, avast!" Jolly called out, appearing suddenly in the hatchway. He tossed James the cutlass he had loaned the boy for practice. It arched over Buckland's bald and shining head and James snatched it neatly. Armed, he struck a fighting stance and prepared. Beset on both sides now, Buckland drew a second cutlass and backed into a corner of the room to keep them from flanking him.

Jolly was a good swordsman, and James was greatly improved under his tutelage, but it quickly became apparent that, even outnumbered, Buckland was superior, both in form and strength. A clever parry sent Jolly's blade spinning out of his hand, and a simultaneous strike with the pommel of his offhand weapon sent James reeling back, stunned. Buckland chose then to drop one blade and draw his pistol. He cocked the weapon and pointed it at James' chest.

"See ye in Hell, Whelp," he snarled, and fired.

James staggered, suddenly bereft of the bloody rage that made him feel so much stronger than before. The pounding in his chest had stopped and he felt dizzy and a bit revolted by the fact of his first murder. He could not believe he was not shot, but he was not quite lucid enough to realize who was.

Directly in front of him, Jolly fell to his knees. James' head cleared enough to let him know that Roger had jumped into the line of Buckland's fire to shield him. The young man gagged, gasped, then fell face-first onto the decking, one of his splayed hands almost touching the Captain's cooling corpse. James dropped to one knee next to him and rolled him over. Blank, staring eyes gazed past him to the ceiling. Jolly Roger Rees was dead, a bullet in his chest.

Smee whined from under the bunk. James looked up into Buckland's grinning face. The man advanced, cutlass in hand. James looked around for his own weapon but he had dropped it and in the disagreeable nature of things it was nowhere to be seen. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood up, chin held high.

"Finish it, you beast," he said, donning a mantle of grave dignity. Buckland grinned wider, and stabbed James straight through the chest.

It hurt, though not as terribly as James might have expected. The violation of the flesh was too sudden and violent for the offended nerves to react immediately. Worse was when the blade was wrenched out of him, pulling the wound open wider. Still, he found to his amazement that he did not fall, was not dead.

Buckland gaped, fish-eyed. "What the…?"

James looked down at himself. No blood stained his torn clothing. Buckland lunged for him again and James watched the blade sink into the unresisting flesh of his stomach, but again no blood came. Suddenly James was struck by a blinding flash of intuition so staggering that his mind immediately pushed it away. When he did, he felt that lurking shadow of distant feelings break free, though he suspected it still hovered somewhere nearby.

James looked up at Buckland, still standing gap-mouthed with his hand on the hilt of the blade buried in James' stomach, and grinned at him.

"Looks like you need to keep trying, fool," he said, though the pain was intense. Buckland jumped back, unfortunately taking the sword with him. James would have enjoyed the irony of killing the man with his own blade.

"What manner of sorcery be this?" Buckland said.

The shooting had attracted the other sailors, and a surprising number of them stood packed in the open doorway, as agape as the First Mate. Eventually, though, they seemed to realize that a struggle for power was afoot, and in the manner of good pirates, they quickly chose which sides they wanted to be on. There was a general scramble for blades and flintlocks, and soon James found himself squaring off against a full squad of armed men, with his own, slightly smaller squad beside him. Surprisingly, a timorous Smee crawled out from under the bunk and joined them, cutlass shaking in his fat hand.

James held no illusions about why anyone would join him. The pirates on Buckland's side were either the most violent and hateful on the ship or the ones who hid behind the most powerful, and being pirates that was most of the mates aboard. The ones who stood beside James were probably not exactly confident in him and quite likely afraid of him now, but Jolly Roger Rees was quite a popular fellow, and Blick and Buckland most assuredly were not. In his new state of being, separated at least by a few inches from those niggling emotions, James realized that Jolly Roger would stand as a martyr to these men, if he played his hand right.

"Stand down, ye dogs, or share this bilge rat's fate," Buckland said, recovering gamely from his shock.

"By all these witnesses, Buckland, I'll see you pay for Jolly Roger's life," James said. Old Bill Bradley growled an affirmation behind him.

Buckland's face was still grey, but his voice was steady. "The only one doing any payin' 'round here, young pup, be ye. And any mate fool enough to stand beside ye."

James never knew who made the first move. Before you could blink, the battle in the cramped quarters was fully pitched. He tried to keep his small contingent focused in a corner of the room, where Buckland's numbers meant less, but he quickly found his group pushed inexorably towards the open hatchway. He knew that the bottleneck would actually be an advantage if it weren't for the fact that there were many more pirates on the deck, probably aware of what was happening and prevented from joining only by the lack of room. With their backs to these blades, they would fall quickly. He dug in his heels and tried to rally, but he was not strong enough, and his men were not the better fighters.

Slowly, step-by-step, James found himself forced up onto the deck, where his group was quickly surrounded. Someone grabbed him and put a blade to his throat. The only reason the pirate did not cut him was that, not having been in the Captain's Cabin, he did not know what had happened. Around him, his mates were in similar straights.

"Shall we kill 'em, Mister Buckland?" the pirate holding him - "Stinky Pete," he realized now, and wrinkled his nose against the smell - asked the Mate as he climbed out of the hatch.

James understood and could not help respecting the Mate's decision when he said, "Nay - Take 'em down to the hold and clap 'em in irons. Let 'em get better acquainted with our cargo. We'll be rid of 'em in Cuba."

James smiled at the First Mate - now the Captain, he supposed. "Afraid to kill me?" he asked. "Superstitious? Afraid your crew will think I'm the Spawn of Satan?"

Buckland swallowed, hard. "Boy, I don't know what ye be, though I'd almost believe yer Satan his ownself. But ye'll die, boy. And ye'll die hard.

 **Chapter Seven: Clapped in Irons**

James stared up at the bottom of a wooden bunk about six inches above his head. It was his only view, and had been for days. The heavy iron staples padlocked around his wrists and ankles prevented movement, except for a bit of flexing that left his wrists raw and the skin cracked. From several bunks away he could hear Bill Bradley moaning. He had been wounded pretty badly during the fight and was not doing well.

Although James remained silent, he was not in much better condition. The wounds in his chest and stomach, despite all expectations, were not mortal, but he was in intense pain. He spent most of the time unconscious, which was probably a blessing given the smell of the place.

His vision swam in and out of focus. For a change of view he looked to his left. Alf Mason was there, sound asleep and apparently comfortable enough in his chains. This was no improvement in scenery, so he looked to his right.

Deep, black eyes stared directly into his own. They were the fiercest eyes he had ever seen beyond the confines of a looking glass, and he lost himself for a moment in them - too easy to do with his mind so clouded with pain.

A deep voice broke him out of his haze. The black man was speaking to him, in a language he did not recognize. He shook his head as best he could. "I don't understand," he said, or tried to say. He was surprised to hear his voice crack and fail. He worked up as much spit as he could and tried again. It came out better this time.

The man said something else; it was difficult to use sign or body language with the restrictions of movement, but it sounded like an introduction of sorts. James tried to convey his own name. Since the two had nothing but time, James eventually learned a little about his companion. His name seemed to be Akachi and he was of the Igbo, or at least that was what James thought the man said. Though bilingual conversation was difficult it was certainly diverting; it served both to keep his mind off the pain of his wounds while they healed and to distract him from the stink of close, unwashed bodies and minimal sanitation. He scarcely noticed when they hauled Bradley's lifeless body away.

Though he picked up odd words in his companion's strange lingo, there was one word Akachi seemed to find very important that he never quite figured out: "Ekwensu." Whatever it meant he seemed to think it was James and he spent many hours vainly trying to explain it to him in a very serious manner. He seemed to think it quite important that James understand this concept but the words they shared were too few, even after the long weeks were over and the slaves were taken away to be sold. The last chance James had to speak to the African, he promised that when he was free he would come and set Akachi and the rest of his people free. It was doubtful that Akachi really understood his words, but he nodded gravely as though taking it for a solemn promise.

After a few more hours, the pirates came for James and his crew. They were hauled up roughly and chained together, then hauled out onto the docks in the moonlight. They had not been allowed on decks during the whole of their captivity, and James was not the only one having trouble standing. They were a sorry looking bunch after so long and even Smee looked woefully underfed.

"What're we gonna do with 'em, Captain Blick?" the new First Mate asked. Buckland passed him a quill and a piece of parchment.

"Leave 'em chained up outside the local gaol. Put a sign on 'em says they be pirates. They'll hang 'em all first thing in the morning."

The First Mate laughed. "Good idea, Captain…but, uh…I can't write."

James waved his fingers at Buckland. "I can write that for you," he said. Buckland snarled.

"Keep silent, Dog!" He ripped the writing materials out of the Mate's hands and wrote the sign himself, then pinned it to James' shirt with a lady's hatpin.

"That's not how you spell 'Pirates,' Captain," James said. "There's no Y and there ought to be an E. The letters P and R face the other direction, as well."

Buckland raised his hand to strike him; James stared straight into his eyes with that same small half-smile on his face. Buckland lowered his fist. "Get 'em outta my sight!"

They were pushed and prodded through the empty streets. Smee was crying quietly, and he was not the only one. James kept that mysterious little smile fixed firmly in place, and indeed, things were finally looking up. The Mate laughed in his face before he left them, spraying spittle and foul odor, but James scarcely even flinched. His calm unnerved the man, and he scurried away.

When he was well and truly gone, James began to laugh. Smee snuffled and looked at him questioningly. James tipped him a wink and produced the Mate's iron ring of keys. He unlocked the former Second Mate's irons and, almost falling over himself with gratitude, Smee took the keys and returned the favor. Then he unlocked the others' chains while James rubbed his aching wrists.

James more than half expected the sailors to scatter, thinking of their own hides and seeking freedom, possibly employment on other ships. Somewhat to his surprise, they stayed where they were and looked at him expectantly.

"What do we do now, Ja - er, Mister…" Smee started, then trailed off, uncertain how to address the young man in the current situation.

"Well, I should think our first priority would be in finding a decent meal, wouldn't you?" he said. Smee's cracked lips split in an immediate grin at the thought.

James allowed the friendly notion of food to sink in before he spoke again. "And then…weapons. Lots of weapons."

 **Chapter Eight: King James**

First, James made the men steal fresh clothes and then he made them bathe in a creek behind the town before they could put them on. A bit of slapstick ensued. In the dark it was difficult to tell what sort of clothes you were stealing off the lines, and Alf Mason ended up in a pair of lady's bloomers. Disgusted, James found the man a pair of men's trousers himself and made him put them on. "You're quite ugly enough properly dressed, Mason," he growled.

"It's dark!" the man whined in defense.

"You couldn't feel the lace and bows?" James countered. A couple of mates laughed.

Properly attired, or at least no longer caked with filth, the stranded pirates obediently followed their young leader into the town, where they stole as much food and drink as they could carry away with them. Though his situation was rather shaky and his men were hardly the cream of the crop, their ready willingness to fall in line behind him made James feel as though he had grown at least six inches vertically, and six more across the shoulders. It showed in his step as he led them.

"Eat up, lads, but don't make yourselves sick. We still have a lot of work to do before the dawn if we want to make it out of here alive," James advised when he was sure they were in a safe place to stop for a moment. He knew that giving these men bottles of rum and telling them not to get drunk was a lot like giving children a lapful of chocolates and telling them to only eat one piece, but he also knew that the long days of deprivation made them virtually useless anyway. Some of them could function better drunk than sober.

When the men had eaten and drunk everything they had they looked more than ready to settle in and sleep for the night, but James forced them up and back into the town, mindful always of the passing of time and the approach of dawn. They broke into a smith's shop and stole the hammers and whatever blades they could find, mostly sickles and one long-handled scythe. They took far more weapons than they could use themselves.

"Hey, Boss, what do we need wif all this lot for, eh? Who's gonna handle it all?" one of the pirates, a fairly unmemorable little fellow named Timmerman said.

"You'll see," James replied. "We need to find guns, and decent sword blades, if we can. We don't need very many but whatever we can find. Spread out but be very careful. Remember that shopkeepers live above or just behind their stores. Don't draw any attention to yourselves if you can help it. If you raise an alarm then the hell with whatever you're carrying and run for it, lads. Don't let yourselves be caught for anything. Meet up by the creek before the moon goes down. Got it?"

"Aye aye!"

Though James had considerable misgivings about setting the pirates loose on the town without supervision he knew they would stand better chance of escaping detection singly rather than in a great galloping group, and besides which he had important business to take care of. Alone at last, he set out through the wharfs, searching for stockyards or some other sort of marketplace storage facility. It was a distinct possibility that he was too late, but he doubted that the auctioneers would move so quickly. They would want to inspect and clean up their new stock in order to get the best possible price. He took with him a hammer and one of the sickle blades that did not have a handle. He did not expect tremendous opposition.

He located his target easily enough, and as he suspected it was a stockyard, more suitable to pigs and cattle than human beings. In fact, there was a large pen of gigantic swine in the yard. This was a bit of good luck. With a single swing of the hammer the padlock on the gate was broken free and the pigs grunted, jostled, and squealed their way to freedom. James hid in the shadows of the food trough as the swearing merchants tumbled out of their cots to chase down their escaped stock. When they were well gone, cursing down the city streets and being cursed by sleepy townsfolk, James entered the stockyard proper and found the slaves where they were stalled.

"Akachi?" he whispered. Blank stares. Four stalls down he finally found response.

"James." The liquid black eyes glittered in the dimness. There was no surprise in them, only a mild degree of expectation.

There was no need for further words. James smashed off the locks and used the First Mate's keys to unlock the chains, and then Akachi spurred the slaves on with quiet words in every African tongue he knew. The words were picked up and passed on by the rest. James found himself at the head of a great column of men, women, and children; unarmed, but he was counting on audacity to make up the difference. He cautioned them to silence and led them to the creek in the woods.

Surprisingly, he found the other pirates had obeyed his orders and awaited him there, a decent array of blades and pistols, even a few rifles, laid out on the ground. They stared at him gape-mouthed, surprised at his retinue. "Reinforcements, boys," James said with a grin, and checked a pair of flintlocks. "Arm yourselves as best you can, every able man. Leave the women and children here under guard of those not well enough to fight or who can't find arms. We'll send a signal when it's safe to bring them aboard. Look for three lights gone red at the harbor. Come on, men - move to!"

At the wharf, James positioned his men in the shadows, relying on Akachi and the near-preternatural way he had of anticipating James' actions without needing words to position the freed slaves. Smee stood close at James' left elbow, nervously fingering his stolen flintlock. "What're we going to do, James?" he asked at last, in a lipless whisper that carried no further than the young man's ear. "Are we really going to try and take over a ship?"

"Courage, Mister Smee," James said with the same ventriloquist's trick. "Taking a ship at port is one of the great traditions of the old-time buccaneer, is it not? It may be that we are under-armed, but we'll be taking them completely off-guard. They'll only have a handful of mates on watch, if that. We'll take them while they're still falling out of their hammocks."

Timmerman pointed to a slip at the end of the wharf. "There be a sweet little sloop, Boss. Reckon we could take that'un easy."

"Patience. The perfect ship is here for the taking, believe me. We just have to find her."

As he spoke, James kept his cold blue eyes scanning the ships at port. He knew what made the "perfect" pirate ship: shallow draft, lightweight, lots of canvas. He knew he didn't want the "perfect" pirate ship. He wanted the Perfect. Ship. And he knew she was here, he could feel it in his stillborn heart. He had a feeling that if he could have communicated this feeling to Akachi, the black man would have nodded gravely and said "Ekwensu." Though he still did not know what the term meant, he began to get a vague sense of the fate in it.

James allowed fate to take over. He motioned the men to follow him and follow they did. Though he had not seen it, hidden as it was behind two good-sized schooners, his feet led them directly to the slip of The Ship.

She was old. She had probably been afloat for a hundred years, perhaps even exchanged broadsides with Edward Teach and Bartholomew Roberts, and she was big. A Dutch fleut, converted with a fatter hull for more cargo space. She had probably spent the last few decades shuttling slaves, and might even have a full cargo on board yet. She was riding low in the water, indicating she had not yet been offloaded, unless she had been loaded down with sugar and other trade goods for the return trip to Europe. Either way, James could only see the advantages. He drew the men around him.

"This one, mates. This is our ship," he said. His words were met with blank stares from the slaves and horror from the sailors.

"This ship? But James, she's probably got fifty men aboard, and heavy armed. Look at those cannon! These blokes mean business," Smee said.

"We'll take them. It's destiny."

"Destiny?" Alf Mason said. "Folly, more like. What do the likes a' we need with a man o' war-type ship like that?"

Akachi's strong brown hand came down on Mason's shoulder hard. "Ekwensu," he said. James felt an unwilling smile touch his lips, an impulse he quickly mastered. "That's right. Destiny," he said, though he did not really believe that was what Ekwensu meant exactly. "She may be big and probably not terribly swift, boys, but she'll scare the bloody hell out of every other pirate on the high seas. Including and especially Buckland. Now, arms to the ready and up the mooring lines, lads, quick and quiet. Send them to the devil's doorstep before they know they're dead."

Lulled by the size of their ship and the supposed safety of port, the sailors had left only two men on watch, and apparently the captain had allowed them an extra measure each of rum, for they were quite drunk. There was no battle, only a soundless slaughter. Even the most doubtful of James' sailors was quite firmly back in his command by the time James struck the ship's colors. The flag was red. He tore it into three strips and passed them to Smee.

"Cover three of those lanterns, Mister Smee," he said. "Let the others know where to find us."

"Aye Aye, Captain," the mate said, and hurried to comply. It was the first time someone had called him Captain, and James thought he might well have grown at least another inch by the time the word was off the mate's lips. Pirates were egalitarians of a sort: Captains were picked and deposed by popular consent of the sailors under their command, keeping their position by fair play or terror. James could see the advantages to both styles of leadership.

James took the keys from the corpse of the First Mate. He gestured for Akachi to follow him and the two men descended into the stinking, pitch-black depths of the hold. As his nose had already told him, the hold of the ship was filled with people, some of them clearly no longer living. He shared a look with Akachi, then found the key to the irons and gave it to the man. "Let them go, my friend," he told him. "I'll see if there's enough food on board for them all. Otherwise we'll slip out and steal a few more supplies before we set sail, but we can't afford to be in this port come the dawn."

Fortunately, the ship's stores looked to have been freshly resupplied. James had a few of the freed slaves from the _Bloody Bill_ take food and water down to the men, women, and children below decks, as well as buckets of wash water and sponges. Real cleaning would have to wait until they made open waters or a safer port. He set the sailors to man the rigging and get the ship underway. He put Smee on the helm and stood on the quarterdeck nearby, eyes on the horizon. Then he felt a tentative hand touch his sleeve. He looked to see Timmerman standing nearby, looking ludicrously shy, like a country swain gathering the courage to ask a pretty lass to dance.

"Captain James? Er…I was just wonderin' if you'd happened to notice the name a' this ship," Timmerman said.

"I hadn't the opportunity, Mister Timmerman," James replied.

"I seen the plate while we was crawlin' up the lines. She's the _King James."_ The man grinned and scurried away without waiting for James' reaction.

 **Chapter Nine: Blood and Thunder**

A few of the pirates wanted to bring the _King James_ into port at Nassau, but James was able to talk them out of the idea with some difficulty. They had all the weapons they could want, but until they returned the Africans to their native shores and wreaked a bit of vengeance on the slavers' settlement perhaps, he would not risk engaging with other pirates or the authorities. Instead he found a sheltered cove on the coast of South America far from the cities and towns and, working hard alongside his crew and the freed slaves, cleaned the feculence out of the ship and refitted her as best they could for her new life as a pirate ship. She could not sail under her original name of course, and James won some calculated favor points from his crew by solemnly rechristening the _King James_ as the _Jolly Roger_. He allowed the men to break out an extra ration of rum, which he abstained, and they toasted the ship and the memory of their fallen crewmate.

"It's a new day for us, lads," James said, toasting with his mug of water. "We'll make Jolly proud, won't we?"

"Aye aye!" the men chorused. Though they did not necessarily understand a word of it, Akachi and several of the more able freed men, who were working as hands, also grunted an agreement and raised their cups.

Smee came out of the First Mate's cabin, where he had been closeted for quite some time. He held up the flag he had spent many hours sewing together. For a piecemeal project, it was quite a masterpiece; crossed blades of red fabric on a black background, and a white fleur de lys. The mate seemed unhappy with the work for some reason.

"When we've got time and somethin' better to work with," he said, "I'll come up with somethin' more elegant-like."

"You're too critical, my friend," James said. "'Tis a fine flag indeed."

Smee's beard parted in a reluctant grin. Like most creative people, he was both openly critical and secretly proud of his own work. "Aye? Well, thank you, Captain. But just the same, I'll make ye the finest flag any pirate captain ever had once I get the chance."

James clapped him on the back. "I'll hold you to that."

James' last act before setting sail for the Gold Coast was to chop away the pins holding the figurehead, a fairly unimaginative bare-breasted maiden with flowing hair and skirts, and let it fall into the water. He knew he could have had the wood reworked to depict something else, but he thought for the moment it would be safer and smarter to have no figurehead at all rather than to continue sailing with the figurehead of a stolen ship. With the slave trade officially illegal it was unlikely in the extreme that maritime authorities would be on the lookout for the _King James_ , at least as a stolen ship, but other slavers might well be, and they might hire pirates to keep an eye peeled as well. He watched the icon bob on the waves a few times, as though waving goodbye, and then sink. Then he climbed back down the bowsprit and into the ship - his ship. It looked good now, the bodies dumped into the ocean and the blood scoured away with water and sand. It even smelled fairly good now, with the stench of human misery washed out of her hull. It was still…piquant, to put it mildly, but it was a remarkable difference nevertheless. A change from the stink of degradation to the smell of self-respect. James caressed the barrel of one of the twelve-pound guns fondly as he walked to the quarterdeck.

"Make ready to sail, gentlemen," he commanded. More smartly than he'd seen aboard the _Bloody Bill,_ the men snapped to work immediately, like a well-oiled machine. He allowed himself a small, proud smile. Sixteen years old, at sea less than a year, and already captain of a fine vessel. The future looked very bright ahead.

-…-…-…-

Though James never made it official, Smee found himself installed in the position of First Mate without really knowing how it happened. He was not an ambitious man - his only goal was to earn enough gold to get drunk when he wanted - and he was not tremendously comfortable with power and responsibility. Being Second Mate aboard the _Bloody Bill_ was the highest position he had ever achieved, and it was a spot he had stepped into out of the captain's desperation after two mates in a row were killed in raids. But James really had no choice. Apart from being far and away the senior-most mate aboard the newly christened _Jolly Roger_ , Smee was the only one of the seasoned hands whose loyalty was almost beyond question. That is to say, James knew he could trust the little man so long as he kept him out of dangerous situations as much as possible.

But Smee's loyalty was not unwavering. Though he was more than willing to follow James, grateful for the young man's instinctive leadership and rather proud of him in an almost paternal sense, he had worries. Even though he had hidden beneath the bunk in the Captain's Cabin of the _Bloody Bill_ , he'd seen plenty from that vantage point and the lack of blood from the young man's wounds had been very nearly the _least_ troubling revelation. No - the thing that had frightened him the most, the thing that had truly sent him under the bunk, was the sight of the young man's eyes when he gutted Captain Blick. He tried to tell himself that it was a trick of the mind, that he had not seen what he thought he had seen, that he had been drunk even, but still the idea persisted, bolstered by the strangeness of James' bloodless veins.

If pressed to do so by a court of law, Smee would have had to testify that he had seen James Cook's cold forget-me-not eyes turn a brilliant and bloody red just before he plunged the blade into the captain's chest.

There was more. Smee would have rather that there were not, but there was. Ever since that day, something had gone sort of…"off" about James' shadow. Smee could scarcely believe it and it was just a niggling sort of feeling, a funny movement in the corner of the eye…still, somehow it seemed as though James and the shadow he cast did not quite sync up any longer. Sometimes it seemed to be too far away, as though perhaps it had become detached and was having trouble keeping pace, and sometimes it seemed to lay in the wrong direction. And sometimes it seemed as though he had no shadow at all, even when the sun set every man and object aboard with a long and skinny twin.

Smee was torn between his affection for his young captain and the growing fear that somehow he had sold them all into the service of the Devil.

-…-…-…-

Because the ship was outfitted for the shorter return to Europe than the long trip back to Africa, and because they were loaded heavy with humanity, James turned the _Jolly Roger_ to port at Rio de Janeiro, where they added additional supplies. James conveyed his apologies to the "passengers" for the continuation of cramped quarters through Akachi, whose English was improving daily, and promised to bring them home as swiftly as possible. Then they headed out across the Atlantic for the Gold Coast.

On this voyage James discovered a surprising and pleasing fact - the ship was fast. Deadly fast, even in unfavorable winds. At no point did their speed drop below twelve knots, and when the winds were following they ran considerably faster. It was unnatural, but the unnatural had become rather commonplace in James' life and he gave no great thought to it. The upshot was that the trip did not take as long as expected. That was good; he did not want to be saddled with the extra ballast, and besides, the longer the unfortunate uproots stayed crammed cheek by jowl aboard his ship the more likely they were to lose the weaker ones despite the improved conditions, rations, and the daily allotment of air and sunshine on deck.

For James, the voyage was considerably more comfortable. The Captain's Cabin on the _Jolly Roger_ was of the grandest style, taking up the whole of the space beneath the quarterdeck. The former occupant left behind a good deal of personal objects, including some ugly and oversized furniture that made the whole compartment rather cramped despite its size, but James knew he could remedy that quickly once he had the time. There were some treasures amongst the trash; naval charts and shipping routes, overflowing every pigeonhole in the roll top desk and stuffed into several wastebaskets and an umbrella stand. He spent every spare moment examining and memorizing them.

The rest of his time was spent on deck, just as frequently working alongside his crew as commanding them. He knew this was dangerous: As able a seaman as he had become in his short time on the seven seas, he was still a very inexperienced a sailor and he knew it, and if he showed himself to be unfit his crew would take over in a heartbeat and he would be lucky to escape with his life - _if_ he could die, which he was not certain of and did not care to test. But it was a big ship, and while she could be sailed by only a handful of men, he did not really have a full handful of actual sailors; just five experienced seamen and a few of Akachi's men, who did not know what they were doing but were learning fast. James had little choice but to risk his position by taking a hand with his men. Though he never realized it, his actions actually worked to his advantage, and his willingness to roll up his sleeves and haul anchor with the mates was remembered later when his attitude became considerably less democratic.

The _Jolly Roger_ slipped quietly and easily into the dark waters off the shores of Africa's Gold Coast, and the lights of the small, semi-permanent slaver settlement flickered on the gently lapping waves. James outfitted as many of the African men aboard who could fight and cautioned everyone to silence. They piled into the longboats and slipped ashore under cover of total darkness. Cat footed, the pirates and freed slaves stole into the very midst of the ramshackle camp, completely undetected by the snoring slavers. James gave voice to a terrible cry and woke them, just in time for them to realize their own deaths as blades and guns took vengeance upon them. Whooping and hollering, the black men took particular pleasure in this vigilante justice, particularly those - and that was most - who had lost loved ones on the long, forced voyage from their home.

James allowed them to indulge their thirst for revenge while he and the pirates rifled through the slavers' village for valuables. There were three chests of gold. Apparently the nefarious lot had recently made a transaction and whoever was supposed to pick up the loot had not yet come, or they had otherwise been slow to stash it. There was also a good-sized supply of fairly high-quality liquor, and James did not know which discovery made his men happier.

James sent the longboats back and the long process of shuttling the passengers to dry land began. When it was done and the shaken, crying, singing legions were ashore - not home, exactly, but closer than any of them had surely ever thought they would be again - the pirates grabbed the handles of the first chest of gold, thinking to put it in the longboats to head back to the _Jolly Roger_.

"Stop," James said. The pirates looked at him incredulously.

"That gold bought these lives," James said. He turned to address the Africans, counting on Akachi to relay at least the basic sense of his words to them. "It cannot repay their suffering, but it should go with them."

Akachi translated. James watched the faces of the people carefully. Behind him, the pirates were surly but this was a calculated risk and it paid off. After a brief, incomprehensible conference, Akachi turned back to him.

"You bring us home," he said. "You take gold. It is our thanks."

The pirates cheered. James waited for the noise to die before making a deep and courtly bow. "We thank you. And now we take our leave of you. I hope you'll understand what I mean when I say we are glad to do so. Fare you well, and may all our fortunes improve."

He bowed again, then climbed into the lead longboat while the pirates loaded the chests. Akachi stopped him, as he had more than half expected.

"Yes, my friend?"

"I go with you."

James pretended to be surprised. "Akachi, you are free. Why would you not wish to return home?"

"I go with you."

James sighed, then put one hand on the black man's brawny shoulder. "I shall be glad to have you aboard, though I fear you will not be happy. Are you certain you will not stay? What of your people? Surely you have family somewhere out there, where you came from."

The man remained obdurate, and crossed his arms over his chest to emphasize the point. "I go with you."

James smiled and nodded. "As you wish."

The next days were halcyon, as the _Jolly Roger_ and her crew, and her youthful captain, set about building a reputation among other pirates and the authorities. The ship's deadly speed, the way in which she seemed almost to sail herself - particularly when James was feeling especially fine and enthusiastic about the work - made quick work of fat merchant vessels and even other pirate ships. If he had had enough trusted crew to cover it, James could have had a fleet of ships under his command by the end of the year. As it was, recruiting from the crews of the ships he took filled out the _Jolly Roger's_ ranks quickly, and her oversized hold, stripped of the wretched remnants of her days as a slaver, grew heavy with swag, despite the best efforts of his crew to fritter it away at each port.

Knowing full well that loyalty amongst pirates is easily purchased, James was free with the division of the spoils of each plundering, actually taking a moderately smaller share than he gave his men. Since he neither drank nor patronized the brothels of the towns they made land at his gold went considerably farther than that of his men, and while they were all living quite well James particularly was enjoying the luxuries of the well-heeled. His own indulgences took the form of high-quality furnishings for his cabin, fine clothes, and improvements for the ship. His first act was to increase the number of cannon aboard from a healthy twenty-six twelve-pound cannons on the upper and lower decks to a whopping forty guns, only ten of which were smaller twelve-pound guns. Then he had a woodcarver craft a new figurehead: a grinning pirate skeleton with its bony hands crossed over its cagey breast, flintlocks in each. He was satisfied for a time, then he called to Smee one afternoon as he stood on the foredeck, next to one of the two spinners: cannons on turrets that could be positioned to fire in any direction.

"Mister Smee, do you know of any weapon smith anywhere in this wide world who could make me one great cannon out of these two?" he said.

Smee scratched his head. "Well now, Captain, there's a fella I heard tell of in Portugal was known to make bloody big damn cannon on demand, but what would ye be wantin' with another cannon? There's not a buccaneer in any waters today with so many big gun: twenty on the upper deck, twenty on the lower, two spinners and four pursuit guns!"

"Just a fancy of mine, Smee. Nothing to worry about. Er…where, in Portugal?"

"Well, um…Lisbon."

"Excellent."

By the next time the _Jolly Roger_ engaged in another battle of broadsides, the spinners were gone, replaced by Long Tom, the single great spinner the weapons master of Lisbon had crafted from their iron. The gun was so big that the decking had to be reinforced, and the gun was set onto a special track personally designed by James himself so that a team of sailors could more easily move it across the deck for optimum position, and it could be stowed out of the way in its own compartment. James gave up a third of his own cabin to the cause. The mere sight of the enormous barrel was enough on several occasions to force an immediate and bloodless surrender, and the _Jolly Roger's_ profits rose exponentially.

After nearly five years on the seas, James called Smee and Akachi, who had taken the position of Second Mate, into his cabin for a conference. One of James' favorite spoils of victory had been the acquisition of a classically-trained chef, serving aboard a particularly fat French trade vessel loaded down with sugar and coffee bound for Europe (and he had made a tidy profit off of that, you had best believe), and Maurice had outdone himself on this occasion. James allowed the men to stuff themselves silly on lobster and crab before bringing their minds to business with a little clink of his wine glass.

"Gentlemen, we've done very well for ourselves over the past few years, haven't we? I should think it's been a most profitable association for us all."

"Hear hear, Captain!" Smee said with a drunken giggle, and raised his mug of Muscat.

Akachi merely kept his liquid black eyes fixed on James' face, which indicated his agreement as clearly as words. James took a sip of wine before continuing.

"We've led a gypsy existence, shipping from port to port. We daren't stay in any one place too long, of course, for we are wanted men now. I've been led to understand that the heads of several nations have put bounties on me. In England I believe I'm currently worth thirty thousand pounds." He smiled, as though he found the notion flattering. "Regardless, I think the time has come for us to think of finding ourselves a home port."

Smee put down his mug, the grin fading from his fat face. "Captain…there's no safe place left for pirates to ship from. New Providence, Cuba, Hispaniola…they're all gone to martial law. It's the hangman's noose for any man found guilty of piracy." He shook his head sadly. "The world's gone to pieces, so it has. A time there was once when pirates was respected…"

"A time which shall come again, Mister Smee. But you surprise me, sir - there's safe harbor yet for pirates in this world."

"The Pirate Isles? But Captain, all the best isles be claimed - if you want a port of yer own, ye'd have to settle up one a' the rotters, with no good port. Or…or make war on another Pirate King."

"Perhaps one day I'll lay claim to all the Pirate Isles. For the nonce I'm satisfied to see what the unclaimed islands have to offer. From what I've seen, pirates as a general rule are woefully unimaginative, at least beyond seeing maidens in the manatees and serpents in the seaweed. I may find a hidden gem tucked in some out-of-the-way spot."

 **Chapter Ten: The Cursed Island**

"Land ho!"

The cry came from Bill Jukes, one of James' recruits from a taken ship, a man covered head to toe in rather inexpert tattoos, including the pirate flag - called the "Jolly Roger" - on the top of his shining bald head. James looked up and followed the man's pointing finger. Though his eyes were keen he could see nothing on the horizon, even when he checked through the spyglass. He climbed up into the crow's-nest, where Jukes passed him his own glass. "Right that way, Captain," he said. "There's a mountain."

James looked and saw what the man had spotted. He lowered the glass and thought for a moment. They were nowhere near the Pirate Isles as he knew them, though they were far from charted land. He leaned over the edge and shouted down to the deck.

"Mister Smee, what island is that?"

"Just a mo', Captain, and I'll figure," Smee shouted back. The fat little man pondered their direction and position a moment, then James saw his body jerk as though someone had hooked him with a line and given it a snub. "Er…no island, Sir. There's no island over that way at all."

"Don't give me that. I know perfectly well there's an island there, I saw it myself. Now what island is it?"

Smee's voice was miserable. "Please, Sir, there's no island there."

"Smee, get your fat ass up here."

The man's shoulders sagged, but he swarmed the rigging nimbly enough. James sent Jukes down, not wanting to be crammed into the nest with two not-terribly-clean pirates. Smee saluted respectfully, panting, when he finally reached the top.

"Now, what's this nonsense, eh?" James asked once the man had his breath back. "Take a look through the glass and tell me there's no bloody island out there."

Smee refused the spyglass. "I'm sorry, Sir, it's just…it's just, no one goes to that island. They call it…they call it the Never-Land. Because, Sir…well, because it's cursed, Sir."

"Poppycock. What do such as we have to fear from curses, Smee? What else do you know of this so-called Never-Land? Is it a Pirate Isle?"

"Well, aye, Sir, more 'r less…She's a long way from the rest a' the isles, but, well, I guess she qualifies. Was a pirate ages back, when the isles was first discovered, what tried to settle it, but…it didn't last."

"So it's currently uninhabited, then?"

"Well, no. Seems to me I've heard that Red Indians of a sort did take up residence there. Why I canna say. Like it is they's immune to white man's curses, or maybe them's the ones what cursed the place. Anyways, Captain, let's not go there. That island bodes ill for any seafaring man. 'Tis faerie-cursed, it is."

"I don't believe in faeries."

Smee shuddered. "Aye, Captain, and is nothin' gets the wee folk madder than people what don't believe in 'em."

-…-…-…-

They came onto the island at full dark, when the stars shone brightly overhead. James realized that this island was not on the same bearing as the rest of the Pirate Isles; the point of orientation for them was the first star to the right of the North Star, while this island lay directly beneath the second. It put the isle a good distance from the rest of the archipelago.

As the _Jolly Roger_ slipped through the dark waters, James found it difficult to maintain his skepticism. There was a feeling to the place, one he did not like. It was strange, since part of him, that always-close and yet disconnected second self, that shadow that contained his strongest and most natural feelings, seemed almost elated to be close to the place, as though it sensed a homecoming. For James, though, the place did indeed feel cursed. It was face alone that kept him from ordering the ship about and putting as much water between himself and this island as possible before dawn.

The place had a splendid lagoon, well sheltered from the winds, more than deep enough even for the deep-drafted _Roger,_ with fine shores: beautiful white sand covered one half, heavy black shale the other, almost as though the forces of good and evil had laid equal claim to the place with no compromise. Further on, on a rockier, more desolate shore near a rather treacherous reef, stood the remains of a black stone fortress, the last reminder of previous occupation. James was unwillingly impressed. While the place was somewhat impractical, he understood the mindset of the pirate who had built it, the desire to make the maximum impact with the stark brutality of the place. Then, too, he respected the ambition and intelligence implied in such a construction: defensible, immutable, permanent. Pirate settlements rarely aspired to better than straw huts. If the place had not been so blasted…wrong…he might have been tempted to take the island for his own.

And he saw faeries. They looked like lightning bugs from a distance, except their lights never went out. The place was thick with them; the undergrowth was lit as clear as day with their tiny glowing bodies. There was something both attractive and repellant in the impossibility of their existence. James decided he had had more than enough.

"Hard to larboard, Mister Smee," he called out at last. "Bring her about. Let's put this place behind us."

The crew was relieved, Smee not least of all. James was relieved, too, when the ship finally turned him away, for he found himself unable to turn his own back on the place. But there was a sensation of panic, as well. As the ship put on speed, James was terrified by a sudden feeling of being ripped into two pieces. He dropped to his knees on the deck with an agonized cry.

"Captain!" Smee left the helm at once. "Captain, what's happened?"

James allowed the First Mate to assist him to his feet, and he stood, shaky, still holding onto Smee's chubby arm. "I…I don't know. Just…just get us the hell out of here. I…" He stood up straight, though he wobbled a bit. "I'll be in my quarters."

Smee watched James leave the deck, concerned. He could not help but notice that, despite the fact that the ship was well lit with swinging lanterns that cast long, weird shafts of light, the Captain cast no shadow at all.

-…-…-…-

The ship wallowed like a foundering ox, fighting the helm so badly that two men had to struggle to keep her on an even keel. Their speed was down to nothing; the ship almost seemed to be traveling backwards at times. All this despite fine weather and calm seas.

Worst of all, for six days the Captain had not emerged from his cabin, and no one had been allowed in. He had not eaten and no one could say if he drank. The only relief they had was in the knowledge that he was still alive as he swore loudly, roundly, and proficiently whenever someone gathered up the temerity to knock on his door.

"She's opsot, she is," Alf Mason said, referring to the _Jolly Roger._ "Opsot 'cuz the Captain's opsot. They's one, they is. She reads his mind and she's only happy when _he's_ happy."

"We never shoulda come nigh that cursed island," Geo Jimson agreed.

"Wonder what happened to Captain Cook when we was a-leavin' of the place," Ollie Sandeford said. "That scream he let out. I ain't never heard a man scream like that in me life. Wors'n a man gettin' flogged, it were."

"I thought he were dyin', I did," Jimson added. "Looked half dead when Smee pulled him up, din't he? Maybe he _is_ dyin'. Dyin' in that cabin and no one the wiser."

"If he is dyin'," Alf Mason said wisely, "we'll never take this ship out a' harbor again. Mark me words, chaps - the _Jolly Roger'll_ sail fer no other than James Cook."

-…-…-…-

James Cook was not dying, though he rather wished he were.

Keeping his displaced soul at a distance for so long, it had been easy to believe that it had no effect on him. Troublesome thing that it had been, with niggling feelings all the more irritating for their distance, its absence was worse, an emptiness inside he could not fathom. There was physical pain, yes, but James was no stranger to physical pain - indeed, over the past five years he had deliberately built up a considerable tolerance to it, cutting and stabbing himself regularly, both to accustom himself to being wounded and out of a grim fascination with his own bloodlessness.

No, the pain was not intolerable, though it was great. The part he could not bear were the bits and pieces of soul that remained, like rotten fish clinging to the insides of a barrel. Though he had never really known much of happiness, of playfulness, of love, those were gone from him now completely. All that was left within him were feelings of sadness, of anger, and regret. He could not shake himself free of their grip, stronger than anything he had ever felt short of the rage he had known when he killed Captain Blick.

Someone had the effrontery to knock at the door.

"Go away, gods blast you!" James shouted.

"Er, sorry, Captain, I just thought ye'd like to know…we's comin' abreast of a ship, Sir," Smee's voice was timid, shaky.

"What the Devil do I care?"

"Er, Sir…she's the _Bloody Bill_ …"

James started to growl, but stopped himself mid-curse. The _Bloody Bill_. Somehow Buckland had always eluded him, slipping past on a different route when he finally tracked him down to one port. Perhaps a bit of revenge would still the ceaseless clamoring of this raucous, useless feeling.

"Prepare the cannons," he said, and hove out of bed for the first time in six days.

Though the old frigate was heavily armed, the _Jolly Roger_ was responding to her helm again, and no other civilian ship on the seas had such armament. The battle was furious but swift, and James gave the order to board within six short minutes.

"Where is he? Where is the bloody bastard?" James was raging as he searched the surrendered crew of the _Bloody Bill_ for Captain Buckland.

A tall, skinny man with lank brown hair stood up, hands raised. "I am the captain of this vessel; we have gold on board, we will pay you to - "

James rounded on the man, grabbed him by the lapels and held a dagger to his throat. "Captain? _You_ … are the captain? And where then is Captain Bryce Buckland?"

" _Commodore_ Buckland. Er, Sir."

"Commodore?"

"Uh, yes, Sir. He's head of our fleet. He captains the _Grey Lady,_ out of Lost Hope in the Pirate Isles."

"Head…of a fleet. How many ships?"

"There are five ships, Sir. Counting the _Bill_ and _Lady."_

"Five ships. That bastard Buckland commands five ships. Good money in the sale of human misery, isn't there? Well, I shall have to send Captain - sorry, _Commodore_ Buckland my sincerest regards and congratulations on his good fortune. Akachi."

"Aye, Captain."

"Undoubtedly this ship is returning to Liberty Isle with swag from its latest load of suffering. Take whoever you will and transfer the gold and whatever other loot you may find to the _Jolly Roger._ There's no sense letting it go to waste and I'll not have Buckland and his ilk coming back to salvage it. This ship will run no more slaves."

"Aye, Captain."

"Now. What to do with the human refuse on deck," James pondered aloud, dagger still pressed firmly against the captain's throat. "Ah, I think I have it. Mister Jimson; run out the plank."

"With pleasure, Sir."

The slave ship captain began blubbering. "Captain, Sir, you don't have to do that, we've surrendered, you have the ship, you can have all the gold, you don't - "

The captain's last terrifying vision before his death was the sight of James' blue eyes changing to bloody red just before the young pirate captain slit his throat.

He pushed the lifeless body away and wiped the blood off his face with his jacket sleeve. "Get to work, lads," he told his men. "The sharks look hungry to me. Mister Smee?"

"Aye, Captain?"

"I'm returning to my Cabin. You're in charge; see to it that everything goes smoothly, and when that's taken care of I want to you bring our guns to bear on this stinking hulk and send her to Davy Jones' Locker. I never want to hear the name _Bloody Bill_ again."

"Aye, Captain."

"After that, bring the ship about. We're going back to the Never-Land."

Smee shrieked and practically wet himself with alarm. "C-captain?"

"I left something there, Smee. I want it back."

 **Chapter Eleven: Mermaid Lagoon, and Other Cursed Places**

The island looked different by day, or perhaps it had truly changed in the relatively few days since James first laid eyes on it. Certainly the place had a different feel to it, at once both less menacing and more repellant. He did not want to set foot on that strange ground, but he also knew he had no choice.

"Smee, ready the longboats."

"L-longboats, Captain?"

"Yes, Smee. Longboats. You know. The little boats with oars we use to get to land when we have to anchor offshore? Get them ready."

No one moved. James looked into the faces of his crew and saw sheer terror at the very thought of landing on the island. He couldn't help but understand their position, though their disobedience incensed him.

"Then ready _one_ longboat," he said through clenched teeth. "Is there a single man among you brave enough to venture forth with me?"

Akachi stepped forward. He gave a single businesslike nod, and James felt his anger lessen. At least there was _one_ man he could rely on not to run like a little girl at the first sign of trouble.

"Good man. Come along."

Akachi insisted on rowing alone, though the boat had two sets of oarlocks. He powered the boat through the blue waters of the lagoon with easy strokes. Halfway to shore, he spoke.

"This place, it is strange."

"Yes," James agreed, as noncommittally as possible.

"It is evil…and it is good."

"Ekwensu and Chukwu?" James said with half a smile.

Akachi nodded seriously. "And a bad place for either. You should not come here, Captain."

"And I shall not come here again, Akachi. But I have important business that makes this visit imperative."

"You must take back your soul."

James was silent for a long time. Then, "How did you know?" he asked.

"Your shadow is gone."

Another long silence from the Captain, then he laughed. There wasn't much humor in the sound.

"You are a wise man, Akachi," he said. "Wise and perceptive. I don't think anyone else on board has noticed that, and surely no one else has realized what it means."

"Mister Smee knows your shadow is gone," Akachi said. "It troubles him. But he does not know about your soul."

"I think it should stay that way, don't you?"

"Yes, Captain. I will not tell."

Akachi rowed on in silence for a little, and then two pale arms, delicate as a lady's, shot out of the water and gripped the gunwales of the boat. With surprising strength they pulled and the boat began to tip. James saw the pretty face, the long, wet hair, the cold yellow eyes and fishlike teeth bared in a terrible scowl. He drew his cutlass and put a small slice into the mermaid's left hand. She shrieked in a shrill squeal and dove back beneath the water.

James and Akachi looked at each other, then Akachi started rowing again. "Bad place," Akachi said. "Bad place."

On land, James did not need to caution Akachi to silence. The Second Mate was a hunter at heart, and moved as silently as a shadow through the dense jungle. James had more difficulty, both from not being used to such dense forest and from being unused to walking on solid land. He had not left the ship for more than a few hours at a time since taking the _Jolly Roger._

James would have rather traveled in force, with a full complement of heavily armed pirates, making all the noise they could. The island was unnerving: though there were signs of life everywhere, no birds sang, no insects buzzed. There were faeries, peeping out at them from behind leaves, curious and coy but apparently unafraid. The sunlight lessened the brilliant glow of their bodies and made their details easier to see; tiny men and women with dragonfly wings, dressed in bits of grass and leaves and apparently very concerned with style as there was a decided artistry to the arrangements. Those that appeared male wore their hair just as long as those that appeared female, and both sexes seemed to like to pile their tresses high on top of their heads.

The strangest thing about the island were its human inhabitants. Red Indians, as Smee had said, of what tribe James did not know but in appearance and dress quite similar to those roaming the plains of the largely unsettled West of North America, and terrifyingly ordinary. What they were doing in such a place, so far from the shores of America, so far from anywhere on the map in fact, James could not begin to fathom, but they were as out of place on this faerie-infested rock as the members of a London gentleman's club in their top hats and tails would be.

James saw their village, though he tried to steer clear of it. With only one man backing him up, he did not want to risk a confrontation with a whole tribe of angry natives, though he was certain they knew he was there. They had nothing he was after, anyway, and he doubted they even had information that would be of use to him. He could find his lost soul on his own; indeed, he felt himself drawn to it as powerfully as iron filings to a magnet.

The feeling lead him deep into the heart of the jungle, far from shore. The pull led him in several directions; to the east, towards the gaping mouth of a cave, to the west, to the rocky shore on which the Black Castle brooded, and dead ahead, towards an absolutely massive tree that towered so tall he could neither see nor guess at the full height of it, seeming to hold up the very heavens.

James and Akachi investigated all three areas, starting with the Atlas Tree. This was the place with the strongest pull for James, but he saw no sign of any unnatural shadows. He did get a distinct feeling of something playing hide and seek with him, though, and unwilling to play games he motioned Akachi to follow him and they went to the cave.

The cave was at the terminal end of a small, deep pool of water with a wide stream leading from it to the Mermaid Lagoon. The inside of the cave was damp and slick, and muddy. The whole of it smelled marshy and there was a powerful reptilian stench that made James' stomach clench. From the furthest recesses he heard a deep, guttural groan.

Akachi grabbed his arm. "Captain. We go now."

"What is it?"

"Sounds like crocodile. Big."

The groan came again, louder. "I'll take your word for it," James said, and they left.

The Black Castle, which had already achieved proper noun status in James' mind, felt the least connected to the shadow of James' soul, but at the same time it tugged at him the strongest. It was beautiful and savage and a vision of disappointed dreams: he could relate. Though the longer he spent there the more he knew he was not going to find his soul here, he explored the ruin for a long time, becoming more and more impressed with its builder's ambition. If it had been built by a pirate, then he had been both a visionary and an artist, for even in its destroyed state the remnants of decoration could be seen. This was not simply an edifice of utility, but must once have been both structurally imposing and architecturally triumphant. As it was, the one object in the structure that remained mostly intact was a great sculpture of a sort of crocodile god, clawed hands outstretched, standing a good thirty feet tall within the half-fallen interior, nearly reaching the caved-in ceiling.

Akachi was restive, particularly once they discovered the crocodile statue. It was obvious that he did not share his captain's interest, moreover he seemed more afraid of the Black Castle than of anything James had ever seen him react to. Eventually James managed to tear himself away from his exploration, realizing he was wasting time and tide, and Akachi was clearly relieved.

"We return to the tall tree," he told the man. "If we're to find my soul, we'll find it there."

But he did not find it there, and not for many days, weeks, and months afterward. The _Jolly Roger_ remained at anchor in the Mermaid Lagoon despite dwindling provisions and James continued to search the island, usually with only Akachi for backup, though as time went on and the pirates of the _Jolly R_ began to fear they would never leave, never plunder another ship, never have another coin with which to buy another bottle of rum (and the rum on board the ship was swiftly running out), more and more of them found the courage to join the hunt, hoping to finish whatever business their captain found so involving so they could get away from this place.

But James had no luck, and his mood grew blacker and blacker as the idea took larger and larger precedence in his mind that he had wasted his potential, that he had done nothing of note, that he was out of time. He was only twenty-one years old, but he felt like an old man, an old man looking back on a life of failure.

Not to say that James saw no sign of his elusive quarry. In equal measures, as James' power and vitality seemed to ebb away his shadow soul was gaining strength and substance. It should have been difficult to believe, perhaps, but so many unbelievable things had happened that the fact of this reaction seemed almost commonplace: as James began to seem slightly insubstantial, just a few shades darker than the rest of the world, a man of shadows, his former shadow became more and more real, taking a physical form that could be easily seen and recognized.

The form of a young boy.

With the exception of Akachi, who understood the connection between James Cook and this mystery child, the pirates had no clue why they were now chasing through the jungle after a young boy who ran as swift as water, consorted openly with faeries, and sometimes, amazingly, seemed capable of hovering in mid-air after a running leap for a few seconds too long. The boy's features were not yet entirely clear, and few were they who cared to admit that from time to time he did not seem exactly solid, but as time drew on and his reality became more concrete, only a very perceptive individual could see the resemblance between the blond-haired, merry-faced boy and the grim darkness of the pirate captain.

Smee saw, and a faint inkling of the truth tickled the back of his mind, but he was not terribly imaginative and so the full implications never dawned on him until many years later. Possibly it would not have made any difference to him had he known.

Despite his strangeness, or perhaps because of it, James as much as any pirate captain could enjoyed the true loyalty of his crew. He was generous with the division of swag, he had a reputation for being tough but fair with discipline, and his intelligence and ruthlessness made his men rich. Nevertheless, the crew would have turned against him not too long into this futile mission had not the change in his self confidence reflected a change in his attitude towards his crew: "tough but fair" swiftly became "tyrannical," and the intimidated sailors went about on tiptoes shocked at the sudden, unexplained change in their captain.

As time went on with no luck James grew more and more morose. He allowed his crew to take over the searching, and spent most of his time closeted in his cabin, eating only rarely and even sleeping little. He would spend days seated at his desk or the table, either with his head down or scribbling madly, filling up pages of his personal log with self-defeating criticisms or, when his mood was less bleak, mapping the island. These were remarkably detailed and accurate maps, particularly considering James had never put his hand to cartography before and had taken no measurements at any point during his explorations. The talent, and the speed at which he drafted these maps, was maniacal. Even he realized this, and for the first time he fully understood exactly why Akachi had believed him to be the personification of evil, so long ago.

But Akachi had been wrong. James knew that now. The boy he had been had not been _evil_ , not really. He had been damaged, half destroyed by a vain, cold mother and an absent, abusive father, but he had not really been evil. It was only that he had come into the African's life at a moment when he had given up on his gods of Good, and given himself over to the gods of Evil if they would set him free. But strangeness and coldness did not constitute Evil.

Evil was _Rage._

James understood now why the only time his heart beat was when he was enraged. It was the only time he was truly _alive_. He was a walking corpse, kept moving through sheer stubbornness, capable only of feeling the most primal of emotions; a stillbirth. But now the rage was always there, buried beneath the depression and bitterness of disappointment. And now, James knew, he was _Evil._

He no longer wanted to _recapture_ his lost soul. He wanted to _destroy_ it. Only then, he felt, would he be free - free to be the personification of Evil, the _Ekwensu_ , that he was intended to be. Only then could he fulfill his wasted potential, become the greatest pirate on the high seas, and take revenge against Bryce Buckland.

In order for James Cook to live, the shadow-boy had to die.

 **Chapter Twelve: Ultimatum**

"Captain, could we have a talk with ye, Sir?" Bill Jukes' voice was respectful but serious. He was at the head of a column of pirates that included nearly every man of the _Jolly Roger's_ crew of fifty-seven. Conspicuously absent were the First and Second Mates, and Alf Mason, who acted as Quartermaster.

"What do you want?" James snarled. After six months at anchor in the Mermaid Lagoon he was looking far from his best. His long black curls were down to his shoulders and tangled and his usually neatly trimmed moustache and goatee had sprawled untidily across his chin and thin cheeks. It only emphasized the overall demonic aspect of his countenance, and a braver and more foolish man than Jukes would have tipped his hat, begged his pardon, and slunk unceremoniously away. But Jukes stood firm, as did the men behind him. They had something very important to discuss, and if it cost a few of them their lives, it was worth it.

"Captain, the rum is gone."

"So drink water."

"Captain, we can appreciate the fact that ye don't drink much. Temperance is good, 'specially in captains. Keeps ye keen, it does. We all respect that about ye, and we don't think there's any finer ship, with any finer captain, on the seas today."

"And I so respect the opinions of the biggest bunch of ne'er-do-wells, reprobates, and general lowlifes that I've ever witnessed together in one place," James replied viciously.

Jukes continued, unruffled - likely enough he hadn't understood all of those words and didn't fully grasp the insult. "But Captain, Sir, ye gotta unnerstand: We don't be great, blazin' smart men like ye be. We ain't got ambition, all we got is rum and loose wimmin. And we ain't had the wimmin for some little time now, and now we ain't got the rum neither. Please, Captain, we was hopin' if we came to ye all reasonable-like and had us a discussion, maybe we could reach some kind of accord?"

James was still cool enough to consider the implications of this. The discussion was "reasonable" now, because they were afraid of him most likely, but in time it wouldn't be.

"I'm listening, my good man," he said, assuming an attitude of slightly patronizing goodwill. "Present to me your proposal and I'll give it due consideration."

The relief the men felt was palpable, and a few of them exchanged expressions of congratulation - backslaps and such - at having had the courage at last to broach the subject.

"Well, now, Captain, it's this way. I'm not gonna stand here and lie to ye and tell ye that we really unnerstand exactly why it is ye've been havin' us a-chasin' that queer faerie lad all over God's Creation all this time. That's yer own business and it ain't fer the likes of us to question ye, just to do as ye tell us. And that's fine. But Sir, we're down to eatin' what foul flesh we can pull outta the sea from this cursed lagoon, and whatever we can scrounge off the island 'fore the savages get to it. Who can say how long we can keep goin' on it? We need supplies, and for supplies we need gold. So here's the proposal, Captain, and I hope it strikes ye fine. If ye'll give the order to haul anchor and put out fer open waters, and let us take a ship 'r two, then put into some good piratin' port and have a day or three a' leisure and resupply the ship, we're all agreed we'll come back here right after and put to work with a right will to capture yer boy for ye, all of us. On my honor, Sir, we'll catch him for ye, but we'll never be able to think a' nothin' else if we don't have a bit a' rum to sustain us."

Inwardly, James was boiling mad. But he recognized an ultimatum when he heard it, no matter how gently the phrases were couched.

"Aye, men, that sounds like a fine proposition. We'll take a bit of swag and trade it in for food and drink, then you may spend it all on pleasurable company and rest yourselves for four days," James said, throwing in an extra day, knowing this magnanimous gesture would rally his men even though he resented the waste of time. "Then, my friends, we return. And when we return, I will expect you to keep your end of the bargain. Do we have an accord?"

Bill Jukes grinned, stretching his facial tattoos grotesquely and revealing his rotting teeth. "Aye, Captain. We have an accord."

But once the voyage was underway James bitterly regretted agreeing to the idea at all. Progress was hampered by the fact that the ship had developed a telling habit of fighting the helm except during foul weather when she sailed swift and sure, adding credence to the notion that it responded to the captain's mood, which was always blackest on fine days and lightened when the winds howled and the seas were high. They took two ships, fat with plunder but, in James' opinion at least, unremarkable achievements, and with the hold filled with gold and four days' liberty on the horizon the mood of the mates was considerably elevated despite stubborn ships and morose captains.

James put Ollie Sandeford in charge of trading for supplies when they pulled into port, and gave him Jim Timmerman to help him. Timmerman was fairly learned for a pirate, and could read most figures, which Sandeford could not. James himself did not leave the ship for the whole of the four days, though he did order an improvement made to his cabin while they were there, one that made the ship at last feel fully and completely like home: he had a claw footed bathtub installed behind a screen, with a drain that led out through the stern of the ship through a tiny hole with a cover that could be replaced to keep out drafts and spray. He bathed for the first time in months and began to feel a bit more like a human being again. He trimmed his beard and moustache and considered his hair a moment before deciding that he liked it the way it was. Instead of cutting it he merely brushed it out.

Perhaps it was the distance between himself and the object of his obsession, but he did begin to feel better while they were at port. Cleaned and primped, he felt in charge of himself again. He even went so far as to oil his moustache, a foppish touch he generally resisted. As his crew returned, reluctantly in trickles of humanity, from their debaucheries, they noticed the change and approved, hoping that this meant they would soon be returning to their previous lives of excess and plunder. So it was with considerable disappointment that they received the order to set sail at once for the Never-Land.

"Oh, but Captain, we was hopin' maybe ye'd put that nonsense behind ye," a mate by the name of Scarsburg said. They were his last words. With a motion too fast for anyone to follow, James buried his dagger in the unfortunate fool's throat.

"Anyone else wish to chime in any… _helpful_ commentary?" he said. No one answered. "Good. Set the sails."

 **Chapter Fourteen: Crocodile Bait**

 _Author's Note: As sailors in general and pirates in particular are a superstitious lot, and the pirates of the_ Jolly Roger _had more reason than most for being so, the decision was made to omit chapter thirteen. Mister Smee and the rest of the crew thank you for your patience, and sincerely beg your pardon for any confusion the omission may have caused._

It went on that way, six months at anchor in the Mermaid Lagoon, then a few weeks to plunder, resupply, and rest, for seven years. The crew of the _Jolly Roger_ was whittled away in that time; killed by Indians, or eaten by the giant crocodile, or simply slipping away while the ship made port. Not a few were killed by James, and the infractions worthy of death grew slighter and slighter as the years passed and still the boy, fully corporeal now, taught by the faeries to fly, and calling himself by some ridiculous made-up name, remained elusive, mocking. Soon James was left with no more than twenty men, scarcely enough to keep the ship sailing. He was past caring.

Seven years. It was intolerable. The ineptitude of his crew knew no boundaries, and his anger and resentment grew.

Over the course of those seven years, as James' loyal crew dwindled, the shadow-boy - "Peter Pan," as he called himself now - gained followers. Boys, coming from who knows where, seemed to find him there. James suspected they were Lost Souls, dead children unable to accept the end of their lives. Then, too, the Indians protected him, though James did not think they were active allies, at least not at first. But the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and the Indians were not happy with the pirates tramping through their jungle. The faeries, too, sided with Pan, and even the mermaids, not exactly friendly to anyone, seemed willing to communicate amicably with him. In fact the only creature on the island that seemed at least indifferent to Pan's existence was the crocodile.

The crocodile. Or the Crocodile, more properly. Such a creature could not but epitomize the species. Fully fifty feet long, or longer still, with a mouth that gaped wider than a tall man's height. Hide like green stone, teeth like belaying pins, breath like damp catacombs. Though it was not averse to snacking on a careless pirate, the creature generally stayed either in the waters off the Black Castle or inside its cave, so it was easily avoided. But it was often seen, lurking on the fringes of vision, and it seemed to watch. It seemed very interested, in its cold, reptilian way, in James and his activities. Peter Pan it utterly ignored, at least as far as the pirates could see.

Akachi claimed that the Crocodile was an ancient god. He claimed too that the creature showed such interest in James because they shared kinship. Certainly it was true that James felt a kind of connection to the creature, a sense of some destiny unfulfilled. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Seven years of frustration ages a man, and James Cook was a man who had been old since birth. It did not show on the outside, or at least not so much; his hair, worn now in the old Cavalier style, remained jetty black, and his face carried few lines. But inside, where he should have been empty but instead was filled with malice and disappointment, he had become ancient.

Peter Pan, on the other hand, did not age at all in those seven years. He had come into the world with all the appearance of a ten or eleven year-old boy, and a ten or eleven year-old boy he remained. But still there was something off about him, more than his ability to fly and his apparent inability to age. He was not like a real child. For twenty-one years, after all, he had been an appendage to a pirate, and he had many of James' abilities. In the depths of the Crocodile Cave Pan found a sword, long abandoned or perhaps, given the cave's inhabitant, its former owner met an unfortunate fate. Regardless of its origins, it was an odd blade, perfectly suited to its odd wielder. It was a cutlass, but hardly longer than a dagger. It appeared to be made of gold, but it was strong and sharp. And Pan was just as deadly with it as James was with his blades, though he did not strike to kill. More than one pirate bore the scars of Pan's "playful" feints.

Many times over the years James came to grips with Pan and found himself evenly matched. He had the advantage of strength but Pan could fly, and neither made great headway against the other. James tried often to ambush and shoot the boy, but Pan was simply too quick and too wary. It always ended up coming down to swords.

If a swordfight against an eleven year-old ending in a draw wasn't frustrating to a pirate, nothing was.

Another frustration was the weather. In the Never-Land winter came once a day, from roughly eleven o'clock in the morning to about two thirty in the afternoon. During this time the lagoon froze solid, trapping the _Jolly Roger_ in its icy grip, despite the fact that the island was in near-equatorial waters. Though the ship never seemed in danger of breaking up, it presented a forlorn picture listing there with its masts laying over and its square-rigged sails coming loose and flapping.

Frustrating too was the curse of the place. As time went on James began to understand it: He felt better when they were out on the seas, taking ships, even though he always felt drawn back to the Never-Land, and that was because on the open ocean, far from the wretched shores, he remembered who he was. He remembered that he had the strongest ship, the deadliest crew, and had taken more ships and plundered more gold than any pirate in history. When at anchor in the Mermaid Lagoon he forgot all of that, and the only way he realized the difference was by reading his personal log. It was hard to believe that the James Cook who wrote the entries of blood and thunder was the same James Cook who wrote the rambling, disjointed self-criticisms found on the dates they were in the Never-Land.

Eventually James realized that the curse worked on Pan, too. Not only did the boy not remember what he truly was, he scarcely remembered James between encounters. By sneaking and spying James' men reported back that Pan had come up with a cock-and-bull story for himself about Kensington Gardens and running away from home. James himself could scarcely remember Kensington Gardens even when away from the Never-Land and had not thought much of England in many years, but after some time in the area he realized that Pan sometimes left the island which would cause winter to fall upon the place regardless of the time, and if he happened to return during the normal winter hours spring would return with him. To James this was confirmation that Peter Pan was composed of all the joy and playfulness that had been denied him and it infuriated him still further, made him more determined than ever to destroy the boy. And finally he had his chance.

It came at the Black Castle. Pan didn't spend much time there, but he did come there to play now and then. And James managed to spring a trap on him there that brought them face-to-face for the first time in two years. Trapped within the crumbling fortress, Pan had little room to maneuver so his ability to fly meant less. James told his men to stand off.

"Face me, Peter Pan. Let us be done with this," he said, striking a battle stance.

They battled. It soon became apparent that, while he remained a master swordsman, Pan had forgotten much of James' technique. It cheered James considerably and gave him an advantage.

Until the Crocodile came. It slipped through the waters, under the portcullis and into the flooded courtyard silently, and watched the combatants. James did not even know it was there. He made to strike a killing blow at Pan, and at that moment the Crocodile opened its mouth and roared its great guttural growl, like cannonballs rolling around in a metal barrel half-full of sand. Startled, James faltered, and in that moment Pan lashed out, taking James' right hand off at the wrist. James dropped his second blade and clutched the bloodless stump, in terrible pain and stunned at this unforeseen event.

Pan could have ended it then, and the whole story known and unknown would have been over. But Pan was equally stunned. He stood stock still, staring at the severed member, then slowly he bent down and picked it up. Then he shrieked in horror and flung it away. The Crocodile snapped it out of the air. James watched in disbelief as the creature chomped it down, and saw the wicked light come into its bloody red eyes. It crawled out of the water and came for him. Thankfully out on land it did not have power to put into a lunge, or James might have been devoured. He was able to scramble up onto the outstretched claw of the crocodile statue, out of the beast's reach. Disappointed, it growled and slid back into the water, swishing its tail angrily as it swam away, as though promising to return. While James and the pirates were thus distracted, Pan flew away.

"Captain!" Smee cried out. "Wait there! We'll come get ye!" The fat man began to row his longboat furiously, making little progress for the amount of energy he put into it. Akachi, on the second pair of oars, shook his head and began to pull them through the water with easy strokes. James climbed laboriously down from the claw and into the boat, right arm pressed against his chest.

"Oh…Captain…" Smee said when he saw the injury up close. His eyes behind their little round spectacles were nearly in tears.

"Never mind, just make for the ship," James gasped. "Hurry, before that vile beast returns to finish me." It was hard to say whether he meant the Crocodile or Pan.

 **Epilogue: Hook**

"There now, Captain, how's that fit ye?" The nervous voice belonged to the ship's carpenter, Henry Longsworth.

James flexed within the uncomfortable new leather of the harness. His forearm, encased within the padded wooden stump the carpenter had designed, had already begun to waste after only a month. The healing stump itched and chafed even against the soft fabric.

"It's fine," he said darkly.

"Well now, there's good, ain't there? Er…ye just screw this piece in there like this, and…" The man attached an iron hook to the end of the stump, where a hole had been bored to accept it. James held this new hand up and gazed at it for a long moment. The shiny metal reflected the light onto his pale white face. He dropped his arm and stood up. Smee stepped forward immediately to help him into his shirt and jacket.

"Leave me," he said when this operation was finished. Smee stepped back obediently. James left the deck for the door of his cabin. He reached for the knob and his hook slid off. Angry, he slammed the sharp point into the wood of the door, splintering it. "Mister Longsworth."

"Y-yes, Captain?"

"Replace this with a latch. And…"

"Yes, Sir?"

James stared at the door. At eye level, in golden paint in his own elegant, sloping script were printed the words "Capt. Jas Cook." He raised his hook again and gouged out his surname, leaving an ugly white space in the dark oak.

"Fix this. Then have my name repainted."

"Er…y-yes, Sir? Er…same as before?"

"No. Spell it with an H."

"Er…'Chook,' Sir?"

"No, you idiot. Hook."


End file.
